 
# Root Magic

### Published by Philip Bosshardt at Smashwords

### Copyright 2015 Philip Bosshardt

### Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Prologue

The surf was pounding white and heavy when the body first broke the surface of the water. Three hundred yards offshore, it bobbed like a black dot in the foam of the breakers, disappearing for a few moments in the trough of a building wave, then riding high over the crest before crashing down again into the ocean. The sunburned fishermen half a mile further north along the shore didn't see it at first; they were tacking the other way, their jangada scudding across the waves as the two men wearily hauled on their seine nets. The body showed no signs of life.

It was hot, late afternoon, and none of the villagers of Cururupu paid any attention to the oily pieces of metal debris that the tide was bringing in. Soon dusk would be upon them and the men would be bringing their log-boats up the beach to the edge of the forest, bearing whatever they had wrestled from the sea that day. The first strong whiffs of smoke from the cooking fires had already started curling over the tops of the mangrove trees.

The surf brought its cargo relentlessly closer, until the outlines of the man's black wetsuit and diving gear could be seen. From the edge of a clearing by the shore, a scrawny dog was snarling at a small turtle scraping its way down to the waterline. The dog looked up and saw the diver's body driven onto the pebble-strewn beach. He started barking furiously at the sight, ducking in closer for a sniff of this new object, then backing away in terror, yelping all the way back up to the mangrove thicket.

The force of the surf pushed the body further and further up the shore, eventually rolling it over on its side. A low groan escaped the diver's lips and his arms convulsed for a second, gripping his sides in a spasm of pain. The dog swallowed a growl and warily paced up to within a few feet of the man's head. It sniffed for a minute, perking up its ears, then whined and moved a little closer. Another spasm of pain came and the diver nearly doubled over, coughing and vomiting while clawing at his mask. The dog ran back but not as far this time, only a few dozen feet. The diver groaned and lay back on the beach, his twin air tanks dented and covered with an oily scum that seemed to be everywhere on the afternoon tide. The dog strolled back.

A small girl came skipping out of the forest, looking for her dog. She was thin and dark-haired, wearing a dirty yellow grass skirt and seashell earrings, and she stopped by the edge of a low mound of sand, staring wide-eyed at the prostrate diver.

"Pepe," she called to the dog. The dog squatted beside the man, ears perked up, waiting for his next move. Even from the edge of the forest, the girl could see the man trembling. She looked up the beach and saw the snout of her father's jangada nosing around the sandy headland. "Pepe!" She picked up a shell and threw it at the dog, hoping to drive it off from the man. Then she heard her father's voice, yelling at her from the boat. He had seen the body on shore and he waved at her to stay back. She stepped back a few feet and leaned against the side of a screw pine tree, frowning.

The diver tried to sit up and wriggle out of his tank straps. But he was in terrible pain—the girl could see that—and when he was only half out of the harness, he clutched his stomach and bent forward with a deep groan. Pepe started barking and circling, scattering sand everywhere, snarling as the man tried to finish ditching his tanks. But he couldn't and with a violent shudder, he sagged to the dirt and rolled over face down. Pepe barked wildly for a few minutes more, then trotted up the beach to greet the two men shoving their boat onshore. The girl soon followed.

It was dark, several hours later, when the diver finally regained consciousness. He lay on his back, eyes closed, on what felt like a bed made out of straw and leaves. For a long time, he lay quietly, letting the sounds and smells of the night come to him. His nerve ends were on fire, the nitrogen bubbles of the bends still pinching and squeezing like a thousand dull tweezers, pricking here, cramping there, a big claw ripping his insides out. He winced, then moaned and tensed up waiting for the next wave of pain to hit. It was then that he knew he wasn't alone.

He opened his eyes to a slit and let the dim light reveal his surroundings.

It was night—as he had thought—a warm, muggy, fetid night and his skin was soaked with dried sand and puffy from scores of painful bites, all festering and swollen. He was out of his diving gear, thank God; in fact, he was naked and completely uncovered.

Rolling his eyes around, still held down to a slit—he didn't know what might happen when he let them know he was awake—he could barely make out the faces of his audience, a complete circle of them, watching him from behind the flickering flames of a ring of torches. They were like masks—no bodies, just faces, floating in the dark, expressionless, painted and decorated it looked like, though it was hard to tell in a squint. Behind them were trees...and vines, thick and tangled and shadowy and seemingly moving. He closed his eyes again and sucked in his breath, ready for the next wave of pain. Deep in the throes of the tremor, he heard voices murmuring, low cautious voices and above that, the shrill cackling of a howler monkey, somewhere in the distance. He grimaced and opened his eyes again, this time a bit more.

They were closer, they had moved in a few steps, and it startled him. There was a woman kneeling at his side when he rolled his eyes the other way. She was dark-skinned, nearly naked, and her face was lined with loops and swirls of painted circles, like so many interlocking beads. She bent forward—he heard her necklaces clacking as she moved—and he opened his eyes more fully for a second, to look into hers. They were black, reflecting his own battered face, yet soft and sympathetic. She reached out to touch his skin and found one of the bites. He jerked.

"Mucium," she murmured. She touched the bite again.

The diver winced and pushed her hand away. He grunted in pain. "Goddamn chiggers." The sound of his voice sent a rustle of whispering trough the group. The woman reached behind her and placed a small clay cup to his mouth, indicating with a gentle nod that he should drink. He tasted the liquid with his tongue, then nearly choked when she began to pour it down. It was sour and hot and it scalded his throat. He pushed the cup away and coughed hard.

The woman pursed her lips and stuck the cup back in his face, a determined set to her face. "Melao-de-sao-caetano," she said.

Before he could take another sip though, a shadow fell over the woman's face. She looked up and quickly withdrew the cup, scuttling away on her hands and knees. The diver turned his head.

There above him on the other side was an older man, much older. He was short and stooped and deeply wrinkled, with a sponge of white hair on his head and the fierce stare of someone accustomed to authority. He was wiry and festooned with ornaments and amulets from his face to his toes. From each ear hung a heavy wooden earlobe disk. A gaudy nose plume of red and black feathers pierces his nostrils. He held a stick in one hand, misshapen, but stout nonetheless and wrapped with colored feathers. The others called him "Pai."

Pai stood still for a long time, simply studying the man lying at his feet. The diver withered under his glare and soon looked away, closing his eyes. There was a hush in the tiny clearing as Pai stooped down beside the man. The sound of his knee joints cracking filled the air.

Pai lay his stick carefully in the dirt and then gently rubbed a spindle-shaped ornament hanging from a wire around his neck. He licked his lips and extended one hand, trembling, to the diver's face. He touched once, and withdrew, ten more boldly, pressing in the flesh of the diver's cheek. There was a murmur from somewhere behind him.

Taking a deep breath, Pai reached for the man's eyelids. With his thumb, he rolled the lid back and bending forward, stared into the socket. For an instant, Pai and the diver peered into each other's eyes, unblinking. Then another jolt of pain erupted from inside the diver and he jerked away, gagging and writhing.

Pai staggered back and sat down hard, startled. He scrambled to his feet, then motioned for the group to kneel, then followed them to his knees. Working furiously with the catch to the wire necklace, Pai managed to undo it and pull the spindle-shaped pendant off. Nervously, he dangled it in front of the squirming diver, waving it back and forth through the air. The tips of the spindle began to glow a bright red.

"Yemanja!" Pai cried out, waving the spindle faster and faster through the air. The diver's convulsion began to subside.

"Yemanja!" echoed the people in the clearing. "Yemanja!"

The diver lay back out of breath just as the pendant burst into flame.
Chapter 1

1.

It had been a month, maybe more, since Bart Millen had taken his family out sailing. The Simple Sturgeon was his last remaining connection with the Navy now and he found himself drawn to the little sloop more and more these days. She still needed a little work on her rigging to perform the way he wanted her to but that was the challenge of it. He had always needed a challenge to keep from remembering too much.

Bart steadied the Sturgeon for a moment as his wife Sarah stepped off the deck and onto the pier. "Here, I'll take that," he said. She had a grocery sack full of goodies they hadn't eaten and nearly dumped them into the river before her husband came to the rescue.

Sarah clung to the railing and said, "Next time, we'll need a winch. We brought enough to cross the Atlantic and back." She headed up to the car and Bart followed.

"Where's Dean?" he asked, lowering the sack into the trunk of his Chevy.

"Back at the boat. He and Julie are changing into some dry clothes."

Bart shook his head. "Those two would be late for their own funeral. I'll get them." He glanced over and saw his other daughter Kim staring listlessly out the rear window at the river traffic going by. She had been awfully quiet and withdrawn the last few weeks--not that that was unusual for Kim—but Bart worried about her. He reached in the window and squeezed her shoulder affectionately. She shrugged off his hand and continued staring. "You're not going to pout all day, are you? A fine day like this?"

She shrugged and said nothing.

"Kim, answer your father when he speaks to you." Sarah's sharp voice brought her daughter's head around.

"I'm tired, that's all," she murmured, and returned to her staring. She hunched over the window, arms folded, and glowered out at the other boats lining the quay of Bayville's public marina.

"You've been grouchy for days," Bart said. "Maybe we ought to see about taking you to Dr. Rice."

Kim said nothing, earning a frown from her mother. Sarah shook her head. "I'll straighten her out. You get the rest of the crew."

Bart shrugged and went back down to the pier. He squinted in the sunlight to see if he knew any of the other families coming back from a day's outing. Everybody flocks to the river on the weekends. He thumbed a line of sweat from his eyebrows. And why not? It was sure hot enough.

He didn't recognize anybody right off, except for Looby Pitts, of Hedrick's Marine, helping cast off a fine racing sloop a hundred yards down the quay toward the Byron T. Presser Memorial Bridge. They really hadn't been in Bayville long enough—it would be a year this October—to know too many people on sight. The cottage that good old Wally Voss had sold them out on Sandy Creek Road was only now beginning to look a little lived in. But it would come, he knew it would. He and Sarah and the kids had gotten used to a lot of things over the years. They were a plucky group, every one of them, and he was proud of them. And like Looby had told him that very morning, when he'd come walking down the pier to help Bart get the Sturgeon ready, Bayville, South Carolina was a good place to light after a long career serving Uncle Sam. "Yessa," said Looby, "it surely is a good town." Bart wondered. He hoped Looby was right.

He soon spied his other two kids loping up from the dock. Julie was eighteen now, slight like her mother, with brown curls and a few freckles that she detested. Dean was going on eight, wiry and proud. Like his Dad. Bart smiled as they came up the steps to the pier two at a time.

"You two put on a show for the people down there?" He swatted Dean's backside as he went by.

Julie pouted. "Daddy, really." She followed her brother up to the car.

Bart laughed. "Let's go see what Emma's making for supper."

They all piled into the car and Bart navigated them out of the tiny parking lot. They turned onto Bay Street and headed home through heavy Saturday afternoon traffic.

Sarah sank back into the seat with a deep sigh. "What a day. I'm beat."

"It does you good to get out," Bart said. "That's why we hired the maid, remember?"

"I remember." She groped across the seat for her husband's free hand. "I guess we can afford to congratulate ourselves a little bit."

"On what?"

"On making a successful transition to civilian life."

Bart smiled at his wife, appreciating the way she looked in her pink tank top, chestnut curls fluttering in the breeze. "It was a lot easier for you than me."

"Don't I know it. I thought I'd never get you away from those subs."

"You didn't really. I've got a little toy submarine sitting right on top of my shower stall."

"That's what I was afraid of. I'll bet it even shoots missiles at the soap."

Bart smiled again, more broadly. He took a deep breath. "You've been happier this year than I've ever seen you, honey."

"Why shouldn't I be? I've got my family back together. I like my new house. I've got a budding career."

"When is Wally Voss going to give you your real estate exams?"

"In a few weeks, I think. He says I should do a little more studying on financing, the state laws, Bay County ordinances, things like that. But it'll be soon."

Bart drove them across the Presser Bridge and past a dilapidated public housing project now choked with kudzu vines and rotting tree limbs. The road plunged into dense piney woods on the other side. Sturdy live oaks hung their moss-decked branches well out over the pavement, trailing in the faint breeze like a sheer gray veil. Traffic wasn't too heavy along this stretch of U.S. 21 and they were grateful for whatever shade the oak and pine trees could provide; the sun was high and bright and the reflection off the asphalt blinding hot.

"I know one thing," Bart said. "If you sell a few houses, that extra income sure will come in handy. Seems like my pension gets smaller every month."

"Wally said not to get my hopes up too high. The market's tight at the moment. He told me last Wednesday that the only thing that's keeping him in business is the rental cottage trade."

"Even so, you sell a few houses and we could probably think about adding that extra room you wanted behind the garage."

They said nothing for a few minutes, as Bart turned them up Sandy Creek Road.

"Speaking of money," Sarah said, "what about that Post reporter's offer? What was his name--?"

"Hamilton Dodd." Bart frowned thoughtfully. "He calls me at the store practically every day."

"What do you tell him?"

"That I'm thinking about it."

Sarah rolled up her window to cut down the breeze. "Well are you?"

Bart shrugged. "It sounds lucrative enough. The interviews would take about three months, he said. The book itself, maybe another year. He says he's got a few publishers already interested."

"I heard him say something about a movie."

Bart snorted. "That's a big if. Sarah, I'm not real sure I want to open up that set of memories again. You know, it—"

"I know, honey." She placed her hand over his and squeezed.

"The money would be good—hell, it sounds great, but still—" He shook his head and stared out at the road. "I don't know."

"You don't have to do it, you know. Your hero days are behind you now."

"I know that." He glanced up in the rear view mirror and saw Dean squirming restlessly in the back seat. They were all getting hungry. "On the other hand, the public never has heard the full story. 'Heroic captain rescues six men from sinking submarine. Tells all in exclusive scoop.' I can see it already. Trouble is, I've been trying to bury that memory for so long, I'm not sure I could remember enough to make it worth Dodd's while. He wants juicy quotes, you know."

"You have to do what you think is best," Sarah told him. "That's all you can do."

"I know. That's what bothers me. That and the package that came this morning. Somebody's got a sick sense of humor in this town."

"It's nothing," Sarah said. "A tasteless prank, that's all. Forget it."

"You're right. Enough morbid talk for today. Anybody but me starving for a grilled cheese and bacon?"

The kids came alive in the backseat.

"I am," Dean said.

Julie shook her head. "I'm stuffed, Daddy. I don't think I could eat for a week."

"Suit yourself. But Emma won't like it. If I know her, she's probably gone and baked a cake while we were out."

It was after five o'clock when the Millens got home. Bart pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. Everyone was exhausted from the day's sailing.

"Everybody out," he said. "Supper's in thirty minutes."

"Can we eat out on the porch?" Dean asked. He waited impatiently while Sarah loaded him down with two bags of trash.

"If your Mother's up to it and you help set the table."

"Me?" Dean pouted. "That's for girls."

Bart led the way up to the front door. "Says who? Besides, the Captain's pooped. You're outranked."

Sarah swatted him with a towel. They went inside, the girls right behind.

Julie turned on the foyer light for them. "I'm so sore I can hardly move."

Dean started to come in but Sarah promptly turned him around. "Don't you dare bring that trash through the house."

"Aw, Mom...."

"Don't 'Aw, Mom' me, buster. You know where the trash can is."

"But that's all the way around back."

"I don't want that inside the house, hear? Put that in the can and come get washed up."

Dejected, Dean backed down the stairs and trudged through the gate to the side yard, muttering to himself. Sarah shut the door.

She saw immediately that there were pieces of newspaper strewn around the den. "I thought I told Emma to straighten up and vacuum in here," she said to herself. Usually, their newly-hired, live-in maid was there at the door to greet them. Must be taking a nap, Sarah decided. She went into the kitchen.

Julie was already setting the table. Kim was digging into the refrigerator for something cold to drink.

"Okay, crew," Sarah told them, "we'd better get the table set before the Captain eats us for dinner. Kim, go find Emma. She's probably in her room."

"I'll get the bread," Julie said. She went into the pantry.

Kim sipped at her Coke. "I set the table last night. It's Dean's turn."

"Just do what I say and get Emma. You want to eat tonight, don't you?"

"Not especially." She shrugged and shambled off.

Sarah heard a commotion, then a shriek, from the pantry.

"Momma...Mom—Mother!"

It was Julie. She staggered out of the pantry, pale and shaken.

"What is it? What's the matter?"

Julie clutched the back of the chair by the bay window. Sarah went to her daughter, helping her sit down. She closed her eyes and choked back a sob, pointing in the direction of the pantry. Sarah took a look.

It was a small pantry, shelves on the walls, cabinets at the back. There were hooks on the ceiling from which Sarah had hung several large pots. But it wasn't the pots she saw.

It was Emma.

Strung up by her feet and dangling naked like a bloody slab of meat, right in the center of the pantry.

Sarah caught her breath. "Oh, my God—" she nearly choked.

2.

For the last two and a half hours, there had been only one thing in Private First Class Jimmy Lattimore's mind, one overriding constant that blotted out all extraneous thought and memory and fastened itself like a leech on his attention. It was simply this: today was the first time in almost a week that he had been allowed out of the stockade, along with a few of his playmates, and if he didn't get a move on and think up some clever plan for getting the hell out of tis god-awful cesspool of a joint, it might very well be his last chance. It wasn't out of the goodness of Corporal Steen's little tin heart that the fine young men of the Second Correctional Brigade, United States Marine Corps, Parris Island, South Carolina, had been given the opportunity to trim hedges along the south parade ground in 105 degree heat this beautiful Saturday morning.

No sir.

It was an order, pure and clean and direct from the Olympic-sized mouth of none other than THE MAN HIMSELF, Major Buddy J. Henley, of Washington, North Carolina—and not the Henleys known far and wide for the raising of plump broiler chickens either, you wiseasses—an order stating that the south and north parade grounds would have their hedgerows neatly trimmed and their blades of fescue grass neatly cut and manicured and edged and all of the loose litter that other Marines on this base so thoughtlessly let fly out of their Camaros and Mustangs picked up, or else each and every one of you will be personally sucked dry of all bodily fluids and left to dessicate in the hot sun under the greedy little eyes of all the turkey buzzards that fly around here.

An order it was and Pfc. Jimmy Lattimore could have kissed the good Major right on his pimply nose, for it gave him the one thing he had hoping and praying and waiting for ever since the Marine Corps had decided his best talents really didn't lie in the area of selling South American weeds to the men of B Company barracks: a way out. A chance to take a permanent vacation from this Disney World gone crazy.

Lattimore lay the clippers down on top of the hedge and raised up for a moment, to stretch and unpeel his soggy T-shirt from his back. He shot a rueful look at the boy next to him. He was red-haired and named Kirby.

"I'm beat, man. I feel like a fucking prune out here."

Kirby kept snipping at the hedge, bent over like an ancient farmer. "You better get your butt back to work before Steen takes a bite out of it."

"Fuck Steen. Look at his guards over there. They're both gonna nod off in another minute."

Kirby straightened up just enough to take a peek over the top of the hedge. Sure enough, the two guards who had been assigned to oversee the detail were both leaning casually against a lamppost by the sidewalk that surrounded the parade ground, smoking and idly staring off back across the road at a platoon of infantrymen double-timing toward the armory. From the looks of them, they had just come from the Combat Barrier Course at the other end of the base...the last couple of echelons of men were dragging pretty bad.

Scanning the scene, Lattimore noticed he hadn't see before: a big truck marked DILBEY'S on its side panel, unloading desks and chairs at the inventory depot building a few dozen yards away. The rear doors of the truck were open and a wooden ramp ran right up into that wonderfully cool-looking interior. Lattimore swallowed hard, to keep from drooling.

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a shout and some commotion on the other side of the hedge, down at the corner of the sidewalk. He looked over. A fight had broken out between two soldiers, right where the hedge made its sharp ninety-degree turn. Or maybe it was just a wrestling match. He knew one of the men—it was Schockley, tall, horse-faced Schockley—who had once bunked across from him back in the good old days of Basic. Schockley was going at it pretty good with a shorter kid, a black-haired fellow who, even as Lattimore looked on, deliberately yanked Schockley by what there was of his blond hair, and pulled him backwards over the freshly trimmed hedge. That was too much for the guards, who rushed over to separate the men.

Work had stopped for the moment—everyone took advantage of the diversion to take a break and flap themselves cool—and Jimmy Lattimore waited just a few seconds longer, long enough for the men around him to saunter good-naturedly over toward the struggling men, before taking off.

He stumbled and crawled, crouching low and half blinded by his own stinging sweat, running toward the rear doors of the Dilbey Furniture Company truck. At most, it was a hundred yards distant from the edge of the parade ground. It seemed like a million though and Lattimore was sure he'd be spotted before he made it.

But he wasn't.

He scrambled up the ramp and into the back twisting his ankle as he pitched headlong over a pile of ropes and canvas. He clambered along the wooden floor until he spied a bulky piece of furniture—a chair from the looks of it—draped with heavy canvas, squatting in the back corner of the van.

He didn't waste a second. He was under the canvas, face pressed hard into the back of a recliner, trying to catch his breath, blood roaring in his ears, in no time. Shifting himself to get into a more comfortable position, his boot scraped the floor with a loud squeal and he froze. They had to have heard that.

But they hadn't.

And when he had last gotten some kind of control over his ragged breathing, he heard the shouts. Maybe the fight was still going on. Maybe it had gotten bigger. Maybe Corporal Steen had fallen into a crack in the earth. Jimmy Lattimore giggled involuntarily at the thought. Then he heard the door to the cab being opened.

There were several men at the front of the truck. He listened carefully, though it was hard to distinguish anything through the heavy canvas. Twice, he thought he heard the word "inventory." There was a "district." And something about a "billing period." But nothing else. Nothing about him.

He heard the cab door shut and chanced a cautious peel from underneath the canvas. The truck had no rear door; he wondered if the recliner was somehow secured to the floor. He didn't much relish the thought of being dragged out the back in the middle of the highway. But he had no time to dwell on that. The engine grumbled into life and, before he knew it, they were backing up. He ducked under the canvas when he saw the work detail back at the hedges, everything seemingly under control. No commotion, no panic, no guards stalking the bushes looking for anyone. It was incredible. He hadn't even been missed.

That cocksucker Steen has the brains of a turnip. He almost wished he could hang around awhile to catch what major Buddy J. Henley would do to the Corporal when muster was taken at the stockade gate. Lattimore grinned at the thought.

He squatted back, clinging to the armrest of the chair as the truck swerved around a series of turns. From time to time, he peeked out, trying to determine where on the base they were, where they were headed. Out, he hoped. Away from this kindergarten, far, far, away.

As if in answer to his thoughts, the truck began to slow down. Lattimore dared a look and had to duck back almost immediately; someone was standing at the back, peering into the dark, right at him. He held his breath, praying he hadn't been spotted. A minute passed, then another. He heard muffled voices. Clearly, they were now at the gate. And by now, word had probably gotten out. A prisoner was loose somewhere on the base. The gate guard would have gotten their orders quickly: search every vehicle leaving the base thoroughly.

He swallowed hard. And waited.

After what seemed like an hour, the truck cranked up again and began rolling out through the gate. No one had come into the van. No one had poked around the furniture in the back. No one had stood at the back, M-1 cocked and ready, saying, "Come out now or get your balls blown off." For a few minutes, the relief was so great, that Lattimore laughed softly, then more loudly, his laughter soon erupting into an uncontrollable fit of giggling. You laugh like a damn girl, Daddy had always said. Quit giggling like a goddamned girl. He choked and coughed, trying to swallow it down. Daddy was right. Daddy was always right. Give Jimbo a cherry sucker every time he acts like a man.

Still giggling, pretty sure no one could hear it over the rumble of the truck—they were rocking along good now, must be out on the highway—Lattimore threw back the canvas blinked some dust and sunlight out of his eyes, and glared out the back of the truck. The giggling stopped. He grinned wide at the sight.

The northeast gate was dwindling away in the distance, a Tonka Toy picture of little toy soldiers and toy jeeps, set like a clumsy kid's playthings against a hazy hot early summer blue sky. His smile grew wider and he tugged happily at his lower lip, enjoying every minute of the view. He threw off the canvas completely and crawled out on all fours, taking a deep exhilarating breath. It tasted good, this new freedom, sort of like the roasted marshmallows he used to wolf down by the dozen when his Dad took him and Mark camping in the woods.

"By God, the kid's gone AWOL," he muttered to himself.

The truck rounded a gentle turn in the road and the cloak of a huge mossy oak covered his last view of the gate. So far as he could tell, they were barreling north, toward what he had no idea. He didn't really care. He'd been off base maybe once since he'd been here and he'd been drunk-sick the whole time. He could blame Kirby for that, Kirby and all those other jackoffs who doubled up laughing so whenever Corporal Steen called him "Zombie", as he was wont to do these last awful weeks. But to hell with them, screw 'em all. He'd gone and done it and he could just picture them back at the base, milling around the half-trimmed hedges like a bunch of stupid cows. He had gone and done what they had all talked and bragged and dreamed about, lying to each other like a bunch of boys caught lifting Baby Ruths at the grocery store, how brave they were, how they were going to cut out and skip town before the MPs ever missed them. Lattimore snorted. What a bunch of babies. Let's see: Steen would have them triple-timing around the parade grounds as punishment right about now.

He couldn't help a big smile.

The only thing was they would come after him soon enough. They wouldn't let him alone, not ever, not Major Buddy J. Henley. Steen either. Before you knew it, they'd call out of the Army.

Lattimore laughed. "Now that's a stupid thing to say." He knocked himself on the side of the head. "Why would the Marines call out the Army?" Still, it was something to think about.

He made his way carefully across the floor to the edge at the back and looked down at the asphalt underneath. It wasn't that he was worried so much, it was just that Henley was like an old dog with his favorite rag—once he had his teeth on you, he was not inclined to let go.

Lattimore estimated they were doing a good fifty miles an hour. And that asphalt looked hard, real hard. It would be a helluva lot worse than the Parachute Training Drop. But he had done that. He'd survived that and a lot of other things as well. Fuck 'em all; he wasn't no marshmallow. He could do this too.

Roll with the impact. Distribute your weight over a lot of ground. Keep your head down and your arms in.

He swallowed hard and blinked a few times. It was just a matter of getting up the nerve.

3.

Bart was settling down with the TV sheet in the den when he heard the screams. He got up and went into the kitchen to investigate.

"What on earth is going—" He stopped when he saw the look on Julie's face. Kim was helping her mother away from the pantry. "What's the matter with you two?"

Sarah sat down heavily. "You'd better see for yourself. It's...I—"

Puzzled, Bart took a look. The sight of their old maid, not with the family even a few month, made his stomach turn. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief.

Beside him, Kim swallowed hard. "Daddy...is she...is she--?"

Bart turned grimly from the door and quickly steered his daughter away from the sight. "It looks like it. I'd better cut her down." He went into the kitchen looking for a knife. "You stay away from there."

Dean came bustling in from the den. "Ain't dinner ready yet?" He stopped short, beside the bulletin board, at the sight of everyone's faces. "I sure would like some—" He looked puzzled. "What's going on?"

Sarah motioned him over. "You'd better sit down, honey."

Kim sat down too. "Emma's dead."

"Dead?"

"Everybody hold still," Bart said. He took a butcher knife and went back into the pantry, squeezing in sideways to avoid brushing against the old woman's body. "You didn't touch anything, did you, Julie?"

Julie shook her head, still sobbing softly. Sarah stroked her hair. "Kim, go get her some water." She took a deep breath, willing the image to go away. Not in my house. "Why would anybody do a thing like this?"

"I don't know," Bart said. They heard some of the pots clanking against each other.

"I want to see," Dean said. He jumped up and followed his father through the door.

"I thought I told you to stay back."

"Dad..."

"Just go over there and stand with your sisters. I'll cut her down. Go on." Reluctantly, Dean obeyed and backed out. Bart gripped the knife and took a deep breath. He balanced himself on a lower shelf and went to work.

For the first time, he saw how the woman had probably been killed. She had been hanged upside down, true enough, but more than that, she had been badly mutilated and scarred all up and down her chest and stomach, so much so that Bart couldn't see what was holding her together. A jagged red slash, now sagged open to a crusty black oval, cut diagonally from underneath her left arm to her right thigh. There were other marks too, stab wounds he surmised, dotted around that big slash, nicely symmetrical as if the killer had wanted his work to show a gruesome sort of aesthetic sense. A piece of intestine oozed out of the gash and hung limply from her stomach. It looked like she had been disemboweled.

Bart heard Julie choking back deep sobs. Sarah tried to comfort her. Kim and Dean looked on dry-eyed, fascinated. "It's horrible...who could do such a thing?"

Bart grunted—his nose wrinkled at the putrid smell—and stood up on his tip toes to reach the rope tied around her ankles. "God only knows...some crazo, I imagine. I know one thing though: I don't want anybody touching a thing in this house until the Sheriff takes a good look." He sawed at the rope—it looked like one of his own, stolen from the back of his Jeep—grimacing as the threads gave way one by one. In a minute, he had lowered her body to the floor. The body was still stiff; rigor mortis hadn't worn off yet. That meant she couldn't have been dead for too many hours. Her tongue was swollen and purplish.

Sarah met her husband at the pantry door. "You don't think—"

Bart stood there with his hands on his hips. "The same people who sent the package? Could be."

"It doesn't make any sense."

"I doubt if it's supposed to." He saw Kim and Dean coming up, a little hesitantly." You guys ever hear Emma talk like she was afraid of anyone?" They both shook their heads.

Kim brushed a curl of hair out of eyes and folded her arms, shivering. "Emma was real quiet, Daddy. She didn't say very much."

Dean nodded. "She used to say she was born with a mop in her hands. What are all those marks on her stomach?"

"Stab wounds. Why?"

He shrugged. "Looks like they make a pattern."

Kim hit him.

"She's dead, dope. That's all that matters."

"Don't hit me—"

"That's enough," Bart said. "Shut up, both of you. It's a terrible thing that's happened but we've got to be strong about this. We've been through worse, haven't we?"

It was an old routine. The children responded as always.

"Yes, sir," said Dean. He glared daggers at his sister.

"Kim?"

"Yes, sir," she murmured.

"That's better. Let's clear out and don't disturb anything until the police get here." He herded them all back toward the den and went to the phone in the kitchen.

"You kids go to your rooms," Sarah told them. "Get washed up and change those clothes before the Sheriff gets here." She helped Julie down the hall herself.

Kim went back into the kitchen for some potato chips. She sniffed a little and daubed at her eyes with a Kleenex. She sat at the counter, listening to her father on the phone, idly scratching her wrist.

"Looks like she's been dead for several hours, Verne, no more than that," Bart was saying. "It's pretty messy but I've kept everyone out of there until you could come."

As she listened, Kim became aware of an itch that wouldn't quit. It was her right wrist and forearm and she held it up to the light to look at it. The skin was pink, inflamed a little and she scratched again. It burned.

She excused herself to go to the bathroom and once she was there, she examined her arm more closely. It looked like a rash, maybe poison ivy or something. She wondered where she could have gotten it. Maybe those berries she was always eating back in the woods. One thing was for sure: Daddy thought she might have known something about who killed Emma. Kim rubbed furiously at the rough, scaly patch of skin on her forearm. That was natural enough; everybody looked to her when bad things happened. They always had. Kim, whatever you're doing, stop it right now. Leave Julie alone. Quit pestering Emma. I've told you a thousand times—

Sometimes, she wished she could grow a hundred feet tall and stomp them all to bits. Then Julie would stop showing off, always asking her questions she knew she couldn't answer, correcting her grammar like Miss Briggs did and sarcastically calling her Shakespeare. She wished she could turn into that huge bird with the human face that she had nightmares about and just fly off, never to return. Or maybe she would return and swoop around their heads crapping on them all day, like they did to her.

She scratched at the fiery itch some more and decided to go use some of Momma's cream, that white stuff she kept underneath the mirror in her bathroom. She rubbed it on liberally and the itch seemed to subside for a time. She wondered when they would eat supper now.

As she was walking back up the hall toward the family room, she saw her father go out the pantry door and walked across the backyard toward his Jeep. On impulse, she slipped into the pantry right behind him, pushing the door to, so that he wouldn't see her. She stood there, looking at the old quilt he had placed on Emma's body.

Poor old Emma. She had liked the old woman, even when she had scolded her for tracking in dirt and lying on a bed already made up. "It vex the spirits somethin' turrible when you mess up my bed," she used to say. Kim scratched her arm against her jeans and wiped a film of wet out of her eyes. She blinked them clear and it was then that she noticed something she hadn't seen before. There was a little brown paper bundle on the shelf behind the pantry door, just opposite one of the hinges.

She held her breath and reached across to pick it up.

Maybe it was something the killer had left. She shuddered at the thought and brought the bundle back out to the kitchen table. Or maybe just one of Emma's odd little tokens. She had lots of charms and things. "Keeps the bad root quiet," she liked to explain. She would hold the token—it was often a tiny carving—hold it real tight in her hand and screw her eyes shut for a few moments, like she was making a wish. Then she would stuff it in the pocket of her apron and say no more about it for the rest of the day. Kim and Dean always thought that was funny.

Kim held the bundle in the palm of her hand. It didn't weigh much, whatever it was. She glanced out the bay window, to make sure Daddy wasn't coming back; he was still poking around the inside of his Jeep. After a minute or two of fumbling, she found a way into the bundle. It was taped securely but she found a tiny packet inside, made of burlap or something, stitched together with a crude, bright red thread.

She laid it on the table and examined it for a moment. Where did this come from? Curious, she gnawed at the seam of the packet with her teeth until she had opened a small hole. She began pulling the thing apart along the stitch.

It was full of powder, funny-colored powder—almost yellow, almost gold, with a few prickly-looking leaves, shaped to look like miniature hands and fingers, and what seemed to be bits and pieces of bone and ivory. Kim let the powder run through her fingers—maybe it was gold dust she had found. That would be neat. Then one of the bone bits caught her eye.

Kim looked at the fragment a little closer and suddenly realized it was carved and shaped to resemble a man. He was a funny-looking sort of man, not even an inch high, and dressed in a black tri-corner hat with dark blue golden braided jacket and epaulettes, with white breeches and silk stockings, like an old English admiral. The thing was heavily lacquered and stained red to look like it was bleeding. As she examined the detail more carefully, she saw that the statuette was wrapped in some kind of sea serpent's tail; it was squeezing the life out of him and his tongue hung out just like Emma's did. He even seemed to sigh. It was an eerie little statuette and Kim immediately christened it the Little Captain. She didn't know that her parents had gotten something very much like it that morning.

She scratched at her itch again and stood up, seeing that her father was heading back toward the pantry door. Just then, the doorbell rang. She stuffed the packet into her jeans and ran into the foyer to answer it.

"I'll get it," she yelled. She stood on her tip toes and peered out through the peephole. There was a man standing out on the porch, a big man with sagging cheeks and red pock marks all over his neck. He had his cap off but Kim knew it was the Sheriff.

She opened the door.

The man smiled through the screen door. "Afternoon, young lady. I'm Verne Tatum. I believe your father's expecting me."

"Yes, sir. He's right through there." She held the door until he had passed, then shut it. Bart Millen appeared and they shook hands.

"The body's back this way, Verne. I know Sarah'll be glad you're here."

Kim watched them disappear into the pantry. She wondered if she ought to mention the Little Captain.
Chapter 2

1.

The town of Bayville had long been a primitive and desolate swamp, home only to turtles and alligators and turkey buzzards, before the coming of the Spanish in the 1520s. Once a strip of low marshy pineland flooded twice a day by the ocean's tides, the tiny peninsula on which the original fort once sat had now grown to a substantial hump of land, built up on the detritus of four hundred years of intermittent human habitation.

The original settlers, the Spanish missionaries who had voyaged to the New World to plunder and Christianize, found few living things, aside from the bountiful wildlife, to listen to their ministrations. They fished and farmed and trapped for a time, but eventually abandoned the site for more hospitable climes to the south. For the next two hundred years, the tabby ruins of the fort crumbled and the Bay County low country witnessed a succession of visitors: Spanish explorers, French Huguenot colonists, Scottish cloth merchants, English cotton planters, Hessian mercenaries and the occasional pirate or two. The countryside saw bitter fighting in a string of Indian conflicts and the town of Bayville itself, by the mid-1700s a prosperous agricultural port and summering resort, was twice attacked during the Revolutionary War. Since it was the site of South Carolina's first Ordinance of Secession and was quickly invaded by Union forces in 1861, Bayville had little say about the outcome of that bigger conflict. The two later became a proving ground for many Reconstruction ideas.

The twentieth century descended over Bayville like a musty cloak and to the casual visitor of the early decades of that century, the town would have seemed frozen in time, immobilized in a permanently arrested state of near but not quite final decay. The old planter mansions were cut up into boarding houses and the dingy wharves of the waterfront rotted but all the while, Bayville and her neighbors were content to wait patiently, and abide the depredations of time, for the onslaught of the tourist hordes was near and their invasion would remake the town in a variety of bewildering ways. By the end of World War II, the Marines were solidly encamped on nearby Parris Island and the real estate developers were right behind them, eyeing hungrily the pristine white beaches of the barrier islands off shore.

Surrounded on three sides by rivers, Bayville long ago looked to the water for the greater part of her living. No longer a thriving port, the town contents itself today with a reasonably prosperous haul of bass, trout, sheepshead, drum, crab and creek shrimp. The plantations of the area have long since fallen into disuse, although Grenville, the great mansion of the Ashford family, still stands and the town once hoped to restore it as a museum. However, the fertile sandy loam that once made the cotton planters wealthy still yields bountifully to the diligent farmer and Bayville's Public Market is seldom without crowds on Saturdays throughout the year.

The principal business of Bayville today is the feeding, sheltering and entertaining of a steady flow of visitors from other parts (what His Honor, the Mayor Byron T. Presser once called more aggravating than a penniless wife and more profitable that crime). For this purpose, the water byways of the county's tidal lakes, creeks, rivers and beaches serves admirably and the narrow brick and cobblestone streets of the town itself are often no more than an afternoon's diversion from the main business of golf and swimming and sailing. The townspeople find no reason to object to this state of affairs, tourist money being more welcome than tourist litter.

In truth, Bayville offers a number of attractions to the weary and sunburned. The cool and lush tropical foliage of Grenville Gardens is a popular picnicking ground, although the mansion itself is off limits, since it is structurally unsafe and no more than a decrepit pile of bricks and tabby anyway.

The tip of the peninsula is the downtown heart, a storybook district of stubby palmetto trees and majestic live oaks, straight and narrow brick lanes and massive stone churches drilled through from front to back with iron earthquake bolts, and of course, the stately summer homes with their breezy verandas and wrought-iron gates. Many of the homes are private residences today but in the spring, these house-museums are often opened to the strolling public from noon until dusk and only the rumble of car traffic on U.S. 21 might disturb the carefully nurtured charm of it all.

Outside the downtown grid, the growth of Bayville has followed two imperatives: the rivers and the highways. The main thoroughfare—U.S. 21 or Carteret Street as it is called by the residents—runs north and south through the center of town. The Bayford River roughly parallels its course, until it wraps itself westward around the curve of the peninsula and heads sluggishly onward to meet Port Royal Sound, a few miles south of the waterfront.

To the north of the downtown district, Bayville Fades out into a dense forest of pine and oak and single story tract homes. There is a small airfield a few miles northwest of the Bayford River's Big Bend, and adjacent to it, a somewhat busier Marine air base, where the thunder of jet trainers flying touch and go's can be especially irritating to late Saturday morning sleepers. The northern arc of Bayville's sphere of influence is generally of pleasant suburban visage and the traffic along U.S 21 leading up the bridge across the Intracoastal Waterway is reassuringly heavy and ill-mannered.

The same cannot be said of Bayville's eastern reach, however, for here the highway rambles through a wild and marshy bottomland that abounds in tidewater streams and towering pines and only the occasional rutted dirt lane branching off the road and disappearing under the heavy canopy of moss into the woods reminds one that the area is inhabited at all. There is little of interest to the casual visitor in this region of dilapidated Negro cabins and tiny burial plots (with pieces of broken glassware and china decorating the grave markers) and little hamlets named Tuggle and Frogland and Sweetbranch. Few travellers stop along the road here at all, even to bear witness to the cathedral gloom of the woods themselves. They have other destinations in mind: the outer islands, the beaches and the company of like-minded vacationers.

South of Bayville is the old harbor town of Port Royal and its historic landings and south of that, is the Marine training base at Parris Island, a potato-shaped hump of sawgrass and cypress trees that protects Port Royal and the upper reaches of the Bayford River from the tidal surges of the Sound itself and has long been home to generations of mosquito-bitten leathernecks. This end of Bay County is by far the most developed, the most seemingly civilized of all, and the river here is often lined with one housing development after another, included the ill-fated public housing project known as Presser Homes, now a weed-choked field of collapsing walls and stacks of warped lumber. The sight of modern homes and church steeples and the country landfill next to the soon-to-be completed Royal Grove Shopping Center is often comforting to novice boatmen coming up the channel for the first time, who feel like unwelcome intruders in the midst of such a vigorous and luxuriant profusion of plant life.

The upper branches of Port Royal Sound and the Broad River break up into dozens of murky streams and creeks to the west of Bayville and it is here that the coastal plain is marked by submerged sand dunes showing unmistakable evidence of having once been seaside beaches. The terrain is flat and heavily wooden, home more to the yellow swamp canary and the screech owl than anything else though an occasional cabin might be turned up deep in the piney woods by the lucky wanderer. The ground is choked with foliage of such things as bay blossom and sweet myrtle, and also by the tracks of such things as cottonmouth moccasin and the diamondback rattler. Thousands of swallows can often be seen sitting up high on the telephone wires in the steamy aftermath of a thunderstorm, mile after mile of them shrieking at anything that passes by. The only break in this natural cacophony is the early morning and late evening freight traffic rumbling up and down the Seaboard Coast Line tracks a few miles to the northwest.

The main issue of concern to the citizens of Bayville beyond the duties of their daily lives was how far to go in attempting to preserve their heritage of the benefit of the tourist trade. Yolanda Dilbey, who was a founding member of the Principia Society and energetic hostess of its annual Rose Ball in October, was often heard to declaim at the meetings of the Society trustees how poorly Bayville attended to its architectural riches in comparison to Charleston. In rebuttal, Lawrence Odum of the Bay Coast National Bank and a neighbor of the Dilbeys replied that Bayville was supposed to be inhabited by living beings, not an ossified museum of hopeless relics like that fine city. The argument long ago spilled over into the town's politics and daily business and became a line of fissure between those who favored the view of the Historical Society (called the Hysterical Society by Odum) and those who wanted to paint their houses without having to convene the City Council for permission. The issue still simmers today and seems unlikely to be resolved any time soon.

Bayville was a simple town to govern, despite being the seat of Bay County. There was a Mayor, Byron T. Presser, and a City Council of eleven men and four woman, who usually met in the conference room of the Golden Dunes Motel in the summer because the air conditioning at City Hall was so erratic. There was no city police chief as such anymore, for the Sheriff of Bay County, Vernon Tatum, really held down both jobs now and was well enough thought of that no one could find any grounds to complain (except perhaps the Mayor). The bureaucracy was part time and mostly hereditary, one of the few exceptions being Leon Burris, who had moved to Bayville from Virginia in 1970 and doubled as a County Commissioner and an underwriter for the local office of the Herren Insurance Company. Invariably the most acrimonious meetings were held every other Tuesday night in the County Annex Building, when the Bay County Zoning Board heard petitions for variances to the law. Ozelle Bonnard, a cashier at Gable's Cafeteria, and Deidre Norris, one of the cooks there, usually took turns catering that evening free-for-all and neither of them could understand how the participants could have been born and raised in Bay County all their lives with so few visible manners and morals. Ozelle once remarked that it was a sure thing the monkey house of the Charleston Zoo was better behaved.

Nonetheless, life in Bayville was more comfortable and pleasurable than not, and the townspeople were forbearing enough to find humor and wisdom in their most trying circumstances. They did not often concern themselves with matters beyond their control.

Both figuratively and literally, the low country of Bay County is a land of shadows. It is a land nestled between the sea and the continent—not quite either—between primitive and modern, between contradiction and paradox. It is a land shaped by water, both fresh and salt, carving hundreds of islands from the sandy earth, with names like St. Helena and Phillips, Pritchards and Fripp, Hunting and Daufuskie. Bayville and the aboriginal forests surrounding it might seem comfortably isolated to the newcomer, a country set apart by its past and its unique terrain, but you would not have found such a belief among the older, more established residents.

To those select few who could claim Bayville as their birthplace, the town was a living, breathing thing and her needs and wishes were never very far from their minds.

2.

There was something about Mondays that Kris Voss liked but the morning hours at P & W Lumber Company's main office had not been quite what she had in mind and she was glad it was noon and she could get out of there for an hour and be on her way to have lunch with her husband Wally. She had been the receptionist at P & W for going on two years now and it was normal for Mondays to be slow enough for her to catch up on some reading, do a few crossword puzzles or gossip on the phone with her neighbor Muriel Ward. But not today. From 8 a.m. onward, she had entertained a steady stream of tobacco-chewing, cigar-smoking customers and having to put up with Homer Gould's crude mouth and pesky hands was enough to drive a girl crazy.

Twelve noon hadn't come near quick enough and Kris took a deep breath of that wonderful pine-scented air as she slowed down to make the Gallivant Road turn-off onto U.S. 21. She had a lunch date with Wally today and she wanted to tell him that Angie had had that dream again. She often had it when her father spent the night at his office.

Kris chewed on her fingernails as she drove on into the town of Bayville, past the steep skeleton of Bay County High's new gymnasium-my God, it won't be long before Angie'll be there—and the inevitable traffic jam around the front of Peek's Liquor Store. Through the trees behind the store, she could hear a jet warming up on the runway at the Marine air base. She zipped past Sexton Road and the "Welcome to Bayville—South's Most Gracious City" sign and then she had to slow down as the highway abruptly narrowed to a placid residential street without even so much as a Seven-Eleven to mark the boundary. She had tried Sheriff Tatum before and she knew he didn't much like people to come highballing through the middle of his town.

Gable's Cafeteria was a dusty brick and glass building at the corner of Newcastle and King Streets, just a few blocks south of the old Capitol Theater, where yet another Bruce Lee flick was showing. Kris slowed down even more going by Dilbey's Furniture Store. She didn't see her Chevy—she must have left already—and a loud horn blast from a truck behind her got her moving again. She muttered darkly at the driver grinning in her rear view mirror and turned right onto King.

Gable's had its usual midday crowd. She parked on the street, fumbling in her purse for a quarter for the parking meter, and walked briskly up the sidewalk to the lobby doors. That damn husband of mine better sleep at home tonight, she told herself as she shoved her way through the revolving door. Otherwise, Angie's going to split her skull screaming like that. She shuddered, just remembering the way her daughter was trembling when she shook her awake this morning. It was the same nightmare she had been having for the past six months, almost regularly, once or twice a week. Whatever she had seen in that pool of water by the side of the road had scared her good. Kris felt a chill in her spine; she had never really forgotten her own favorite nightmare, and the terror of being stalked by that one-eyed, one-legged dog.

A hand waved at her from the back of the lobby. Wally was there, sitting on a bench, his bald, fuzzy head gleaming under the light of the chandelier. He was wearing his bright green Voss Associates sport coat today and with his heavy black glasses, he looked like a pudgy duck modeling a clown's wardrobe. Kris waved back and smiled to herself. Must have been seeing customers all morning. He had a companion too and Kris recognized him immediately. It was Bart Millen. Wally had been working with his wife for some time now on getting her real estate license.

She went over and said hello.

Wally and Bart stood up. Kris liked Bart's attire a little better: a medium brown blazer with cream pinstripes and white pants. She had never seen the man look less than perfect.

"Honey, you remember Bart Millen, don't you?"

Kris smiled and they shook hands. "Sure do. He was one of your favorite customers."

Bart smiled back. "I still am. Sarah and I love the house."

"I train all my customers to say that. Good for my ego."

Kris smirked and took her husband's hand. "Believe me, his ego's big enough to fight a woolly mammoth. What brings you to a dump like Gable's anyway? I'd have thought you'd be dining on Hilton Head every day?"

Bart shrugged. "I felt like slumming today. My quota of grease and all that." He let his eyes roam Kris' figure. "It'll be a nice change from the usual. You know: bologna sandwich, Thermos of coffee and the Wall Street Journal. I wanted to get out and mix today."

Wally fastened an arm around his wife's waist. "Don't we all? Let's get in line before we get shoved out the door, why don't we?"

The three of them stood quietly for a while, as the line snaked around the big plastic magnolia and up toward the armless bust of Adonis that gazed down at them over the salad bar. Kris kept quiet but her eyes flashed from Wally to Bart and back. She wanted to talk to her husband alone, she wanted to kick him for ignoring her and Angie the way he had been lately, but she said nothing. Wally avoided her face, preferring to study the menu on the wall with more than the usual interest. He knew what was coming; having Bart along was good protection. Kris fumed.

Kris had always found Bart Millen an intriguing man. Denise Dunn had once remarked that he had a presence of some kind, a sort of authority about him that could make you shiver if you weren't careful. It wasn't that he was cold or aloof, although she had seen those things in him too. It was more than that, little things really, the kind of things only women would notice (and God knew Denise would respond to them first, if anyone would; living all those years with Guy would make any girl hungry for a little charm once in a while). Things like the way he tightened his lips when he talked. That unnatural calm, too—he could sit and listen to you and not move even an eyebrow and you thought the whole universe had somehow shrunk down to you and he. It was frightening, when you thought about it, unnerving that a man could have such complete control of himself. And you too, if you didn't watch out. More than once Kris had thought herself hypnotized. Wally called it command presence—he had sensed it too—and said that's why he had captained submarines in the Navy so long. Wally also called him a robot behind his back, but that wasn't it. It was that preternatural self-assurance—it was almost sexual in a way—that hard discipline and unfathomable gaze that so fascinated her.

He probably charmed his way into coming along.

They got through the line in good order, Kris ordering a salad and a slice of apple pie, and found themselves a table near the window, giving onto a good view of Newcastle Street through the Venetian blinds. When they had their water poured, Kris carefully put her fork down and leaned over the table.

"Did you sign the contract yet?"

Wally was carefully unwrapping his knife and fork from the napkin. "Not yet. Not quite."

"You said you had it clinched. You said that's why you were staying over last night."

"I know. But it's a big project, Kris. It takes time to put together the financing. We got to be patient. Even Lawrence Odum's having a hard time swinging this. There's a lot of work to do."

Kris sighed and sipped some water. "You haven't been home the last few days."

Wally shrugged. "It can't be helped. After what we put Lawrence's bank through five years ago, I'm damn lucky to have him in on the deal. I can't back out now, not when we've got the bucks almost in our hands. When you bet your bundle, you gotta stay and watch the race."

"Sounds to me like you're back in the betting pool with that Cater guy. Is that what you did last night?"

"Of course not. How could you think that?" Wally spread his hands. I was at my office dickering till midnight. Then I went to bed."

"What have you got going now?" Bart asked. "Another big project?"

Thankful for the interruption, Wally nodded. "The biggest. We're expanding Windward Green. Two hundred more condos, a couple of hotels, maybe a shopping mall—the specialty type, real classy. We're working on getting a Bloomingdale's to anchor it. I might even be able to get Sarah in on this if she does all right on her real estate exams. Of course, she'll be mostly in residential. She can help me best there."

Bart was munching on some roast beef. "She's already excited and ready to go. She thinks the world of you for giving her this chance."

"I'm glad to have her onboard."

Bart drank some tea. He rearranged the peas on his plate until they were in a straight line. "Frankly, if it hadn't been for you offering her this job, she'd be spending all her time up in Charleston with her mother and that can only mean trouble for both of us. Mrs. Chesley is bad for her. Sarah looks in the mirror every morning and swears she looks more and more like that woman. She's starting to act like her too. I'd just as soon close that chapter in our lives for good. Her own job is the best distraction I can think of, now that we're back in this area to stay."

"You needn't worry, Bart. She'll do just fine. I'm sure of it. I'll keep her so busy she'll faint dead away when she comes home at night."

"Wait a minute," Bart laughed. I'm not sure if that's what I wanted—" They both chuckled.

Wally went on. "I was sorry to hear about your maid. It must have been awful."

Bart nodded. "It was a shock to all of us...and it'll take time to get over it."

"Has Tatum been much help to you?"

"He's been working on the case. There wasn't much to go on, though. Verne didn't hold out much hope for solving it any time soon. He said it was probably an old grudge or something. I'm just sorry Sarah and the kids had to see something like that."

Wally nodded sympathetically.

Kris was chewing on a piece of lettuce. "Wally, not to change the subject or anything, but there's something I need to tell you. About Angie."

"What?"

"She's been having those dreams again. Those nightmares."

Wally's smile quickly vanished. "How long?"

Kris put down her fork. "Wally, she has them every time you stay overnight at the office. I think they're getting worse."

"Did she...you know--?"

Kris shook her head. "I woke her up before she could hurt herself. But I can't keep doing that. Sooner or later, she's going to do it again."

"Angie's been having bad nightmares," Wally explained to Bart. "A few months ago, we both woke up in the middle of the night and heard a noise down in the kitchen. I went down to see what it was and it was Angie, with a broken piece of mirror, methodically slashing her arms and hands and face. I got it away from her just in time. Thank God, she wasn't hurt badly."

Bart thought about Kim's behavior for a second. "Any idea what may have caused it?"

Wally nodded. "I'm pretty sure it all started that Saturday I took her with me to the Palmetto Speedway up in Mintonville, to see a little dirt track racing." Wally bit his lip sheepishly. "And to do a little betting. That was this past January. We had a flat tire on the way back, right up there on Delta Road—she had begged me to take her down to the river so she could watch the shrimpers coming in—and I pulled off so I could change it." He stared down at the mounds of half-eaten rice on his plate. "You know it's pretty swampy along Delta Road and where we happened to pull off, there was a big pool of stagnant water by the side of the road. Well, while I was jacking up the car, Angie wandered over to that pool of water. I told her to stay clear of it because those pools are sometimes deeper than they look. She stood by the edge of it for a while, throwing rocks and dirt clods and things, making faces and laughing at her reflection and then all of a sudden, she started screaming. I almost smashed my fingers in the jack just trying to get over there and see what was the matter. She was just standing gog-eyed by the side of that pool, wailing, covering her face with her hands. I picked her up and tried to calm her down and somehow, through all the crying and sobbing, she got out that she had seen something—a face or something—down in that pool. I tried to shush her and calm her down and tell her it was all right, everything was fine, Daddy was there and nothing was going to hurt her, but she just kept screaming. Finally, I put her in the back seat of the car, laid her down in fact, still shaking, then I hurried up with the tire and drove the hell away from there as fast as I could. By the time we got home, she had just about cried herself hoarse. She was red and trembling—whatever it was, it must have given her a king-sized fright."

Bart was thoughtful. "What did she say she saw?"

"It was a face, that's all I know."

Kris spoke up. "she told me a little about it once. She said it was like a man's face, only the man had a real long nose, 'Like an alligator,' was how she described it. Long teeth, black eyes, scaly skin on his face." She shivered herself. "It must have been horrible."

"But you didn't see anything?" Bart asked.

"Not a thing. The water was too murky. I'm sure it must have been a reflection, maybe of something in the trees, something like that."

"Children have vivid imaginations. With things like that, I'm kind of glad we adults grow out of them."

Kris sucked idly on the edge of her tea glass. "I'm not so sure it was imagination."

Bart looked at her quizzically. "You believe she saw something?"

Wally snorted. "I was there, honey, and I didn't see a thing. It was nothing but a reflection. Sunlight on the water."

"If you say so," Kris replied. "Angie thinks it was Daddy X."

"That's preposterous," said Wally.

"Who's Daddy X?" Bart asked.

Wally told him. "He's supposed to be the white witch doctor around these parts, the white ju-ju man. Of course, it's all bunk. The only people who believe it are a few blacks and frightened children. Angie probably picked it up at school."

Kris shrugged. "I'm just telling you what she thinks. Maybe she wouldn't have these nightmares if you'd come home more often."

Wally held up his hands. "I give up. You win. You see what she does to me?" he asked Bart. "Here I am, a poor working guy, trying to make a living so I can keep my wife and kid in rags and this woman wants to talk ghost stories. You want to know something that's really frightening? I got all my buns and most of hers tied up in this Windward Green project. And if this thing falls through, our little buns are going to be roasted but good. That's scary."

Kris checked her watch. "I'd better be getting back. Old man Purvis will send the law after me if I'm late again. I think you'd better pay a courtesy call on your daughter tonight, husband-of-mine. Otherwise, she's liable to cut my throat along with hers."

They all stood up. Wally gave her a quick peck on the cheek. "Tell Angie I'll stop in right after supper. I'm dining in town tonight with Lawrence Odum. She can wait that long, can't she?"

"I doubt it," said Kris, "but I'll tell her."
Chapter 3

1.

It was growing dark when Kim Millen decided she had bicycled far enough and she'd better turn around and get home before her parents had a fit. They didn't like her out after dark on Sandy Creek Road, though she couldn't understand why. It was the perfect time: it wasn't quite so hot, the road was deserted. It was quiet, she could think. They had arguments about it all the time and she knew she was probably heading into one now. The sun had been down for an hour.

She wheeled her bike into their driveway and coasted up to the carport. She got off and walked it to the back, setting it up against the wall in front of her father's Jeep. Then she went back out to the front yard for a moment.

She didn't really want to go inside. It was a warm, muggy, moonless night. Good for bike-riding and skinny-dipping. She giggled at the thought. She and Kevin Dunn had almost been caught the last time they had gone back into the woods. Mama would have croaked if she knew we did that. She went up to the front porch and sniffed the air. Salt air. She loved to sit on the beach down by the landing next to Jephart's Shrimp Bar too, especially after midnight, when the place was usually dark and silent. Just sit there for hours and dream of all the places those waves could take her.

She pushed open the front door and went inside, resigned to the worst.

There was no point in trying to sneak off back to her room, so she popped her head into the family room. Bart Millen looked up from the magazine he had been reading.

"Awful dark for you to be out, girl."

"It's not that dark."

Sarah came into the den from the living room, a couple of rags in her hands. She had been polishing some furniture and she went right to the refrigerator for something cold to drink.

"You didn't dust your room, like I told you to do," she said. She opened a Coke and took a sip. "You're falling down on your chores lately."

Kim went to the refrigerator too and pulled out a pitcher of grape drink. She poured herself a glass. "I just wanted to ride my bike awhile." She fished a few cookies out of the jar on the counter. "Is that a crime?"

Sarah wiped some sweat from her forehead and frowned at her daughter. They glared at each other for a moment. "You'd best watch your tone of voice, young lady."

"Mother—"

"Don't 'Mother' me. I know you like to ride all over creation with that bike. Leaving Dean and Julie with all the chores. Your room's a mess. I want it cleaned up tonight."

"Okay." She sulked off through the den.

Bart called after her. "I hope you didn't leave that bike in the carport. I'm going to run into it one of these days."

Kim said nothing and disappeared down the hall. She went into her room, flipped on the light and shut the door, a little harder than she intended to. She held her breath for a moment, but no one came back to rebuke her. She sat on the side of the bed and sucked at the edge of her glass.

What a bunch of grumps.

She spied a little burlap packet she had found next to Emma a few days ago. She went over to her desk and picked up the Little Captain, turning it end for end in her hands. Who could have fashioned such an intricate, delicate thing? Of course, it was a grisly sight to look at, but that didn't seem to matter. It was so mysterious, even a little exciting, to have found such an object. Where had it come from, she wondered? Maybe Kevin Dunn had left it there; he was always teasing her and playing jokes on her.

She took her glass and went over to the window. By standing on the vanity bench, she could stare out into the back yard, out at the woods. When the light was right, she could see the faint glint of the creek that circled around the back and side of their yard, just beyond the edge of the trees. Sometimes, she spent hours standing there, her knees aching, just staring. Staring and dreaming.

As soon as she peered out, she saw movement among the trees. A tiny figure was skulking along the edge of the creek, heading in the general direction of the Dun house up the street. Kim shielded her eyes from the room light and squinted. It looked like Clarinne Bevins.

She raised the window and called out.

"Clarinne? Clarinne, is that you?"

The figure stopped and turned toward the window. It was Clarinne. The little black girl walked back toward the Millen house and jumped the creek. She strolled up to the window and grinned.

"What are you doing sneaking around out there?" Kim asked.

Clarinne fiddled with her braids and held up a crude straw and bark covered doll. "Gone show this'n to Kevin Dunn." She chewed on the end of one of her braids.

Kim unfastened the screen and pushed it out a ways. "What is it? What kind of doll is that?"

Clarinne stood up on her tip toes and handed it to Kim. "It's de Water Witch."

Kim took it and studied the workmanship. It was little more than a crossed T of some kind of warped wood, draped with nylon stockings and covered with bark and straw glued down. It had an eggshell for a face, painted dark blue and fretted with squiggly yellow lines.

"What's it for?"

Clarinne shifted back and forth, from one foot to the other. Kim handed the doll back to her.

"Protection," she said at last. She clutched the Water Witch to her face. "Poppa get it for that."

"Protection? From what?"

Clarinne looked at her like she was an ignorant clod. "From de Alligator Man, 'course."

Kim laughed. Clarinne had lots of imaginary friends. Their favorite hideaway was that old rusted car hulk deep back in the woods, between her father's shack and the Voss house. It was there, on many a sweltering, fetid night that she had learned of Clarinne's circle of acquaintances: the Lizard Man, the Rotten King of the Creek, Mudboy and Lady Lana. They had spent hours back there, playing things like Who Rules the Roost and telling scary stories. Kim laughed again. She liked Clarinne. She was so serious about things.

"The Alligator Man...is that a new one?"

Clarinne cocked her head. "I ent made up no Alligator Man. He's a real monster. That's why I got this Water Witch. He be scared of the Water Witch. You should get one too."

Kim thought of the Little Captain. "Maybe I will. Tell me about this Alligator Man."

Clarinne shuddered and looked around. Her eyes were wide. "He be's as big as this house. Real big. Strong too. Sometimes, he attack the boats in the ocean. Just break 'em in two, like they was twigs. He's real mean."

"I'll bet he eats kids too, doesn't he?"

Clarinne shook her head vehemently. "No, he likes the kids. He does. It's the grown-ups he likes to eat." She stood up on her tip toes and whispered conspiratorially. "Poppa tol' me he don't eat kids 'cause they be too sweet. You got to be sweet to be safe. Alligator Man don't like sweets."

Kim smiled in spite of herself. "Have you ever seen him?"

Clarinne thought to say something but decided against it. She lowered her head. "Not 'xactly. Not really."

"What do you mean?"

"I know where he is, but I ain't seen him."

Kim sighed. "It must be neat to have so many friends."

Clarinne pursed her lips. "I kin take you to him, let you see him. If you want."

"Really? When ? How?"

"Not now. He don't come out of the water but a couple a times a month. When the moon is right."

"I thought you'd never seen him."

Clarinne shrugged. "Maybe a little...." She covered her mouth with her hands. "I gotta be goin' now. Poppa be 'specting me back in an hour. I got some trading to do with Kevin Dunn."

"Trading? What are you trading?"

Clarinne was already backing away. "It's a secret. I'll tell you in a few days. Bye—" She scampered off toward the creek, clutching the Water Witch tightly. She leaped the banks and slipped off into the woods, heading for the Dunns.

Thoughtfully, Kim shut and latched the screen and window. The picked up the Little Captain again and studied it. Its mouth was open in a silent scream, the lips formed into an agonizing O.

What are you trying to tell me? Kim wondered. She placed the statuette on top of the headboard to her bed and decided to read a book for a while.

A few hours later, there was a pair of sharp raps on her door.

"Bedtime," came a muffled voice. It was her mother.

"Okay," said Kim. She hadn't even bothered to come in.

She brushed her teeth and rinsed her mouth, then climbed into bed and snuggled under the sheet. On impulse, she got up again and raised the window a few inches. Mama would kill her if she knew that she often slept with the window up and the air conditioning going full blast all night. But she liked to listen to the creek burbling out in the woods behind their yard. She liked listening to the sounds of the night.

Sleep came but it was fitful and restless. When she dreamed, it was Hawaii. And her boyfriend Danny Kamiko.

A few hours passed. She wasn't sure if she had dozed or not. She eventually found herself staring up at the ceiling, watching the shadows of the trees stirring slightly in the breeze. A faint scratching drifted in through the window, from far away. Squirrels, she thought. Or birds. She closed her eyes again.

She suddenly sat bolt upright, listening. It was that very scratching that had awakened her. Now it was gone. Or was it? She strained her ears.

There it was. Something scraping, against wood, and not so far away as she had thought. She eased the sheets back and climbed out of bed.

The vanity bench was still under the window. She climbed on top of it and peered out into the back yard.

It was pitch black and virtually still. She could still hear the creek and the rustle of trees but there was something else now, something distinctly different. It was coming from the other side of the screened porch, from the ground, and her view was blocked.

The basement door was over there.

What if it was a prowler? Her stomach jumped at the thought. She ought to go and wake up Daddy right away. He had a gun in his night table; she had seen it. She listened awhile longer and heard nothing more.

Without knowing why, she pulled on her robe and padded out into the hall. It was dark and cool; the door to her parents' bedroom was pulled. Julie was asleep. Dean's door was shut. No one else had heard it. She stood there in the dark for a moment. She wasn't altogether sure she had heard it herself. Then she was moving, up the hall, toward the family room and the kitchen.

She had no trouble navigating the furniture, even without the lights. The door to the basement was right next to the living room door. There was a small built-in desk next to it, with a bulletin board on the wall for messages and reminders. She knew there was a letter opener somewhere on the desk. She groped for the instrument and found it. It was reassuringly heavy in her hands.

She was scared but too curious to stop now. Her mind was a blur of thoughts and images: Danny Kamiko, Clarinne Bevins, the Water Witch. She remembered how she and Danny used to ride along the roads of Oahu's northern shore, collecting wild flowers. They had taken a lot chances in those days, scrambling along the edges of cliffs, leaning over steep precipices, reaching for wild orchids at Mokapu Point. She hadn't been scared then.

Abruptly, she opened the basement door and pulled the chain to the light bulb. Instantly, the stairs were bathed in a pale, yellow glow. Something scuttled off into the dirt under the stairs as she started down. Rats. She shivered at the thought but went on. The wooden stairs creaked and groaned with each step.

At the bottom, she groped for the main switch and found it. They had a small, cluttered basement, dusty, partially finished with a small, primitive bathroom a few steps away from the staircase. She heard more scuttling and then a gentle hiss. Kim looked down: she was shuffling a piece of old newspaper across the concrete with her bedroom slippers. She reached down and peeled the paper off.

Somewhere in the middle of the room, surrounded by cartons of National Geographic and old paperbacks was the antique desk Mama and Daddy had been trying to restore. It was sitting on a thick old carpet they had scavenged from a fire sale. She recalled they had bought something for her at that fire sale too. A porcelain cat that somebody had thrown out, coal black with bright yellow stripes. She had always loved cats but for some reason, had never put this one in her room. She frowned, trying to remember where she had stashed it. Under the stairs, it seemed like.

There was a tall, bright green wooden cabinet directly under the staircase just to hold things like old toys and paints and nails and antique polishes. Kim undid the catch and pulled back the door. She quickly found what she was looking for and reached it to grab it. That odd hissing came again, a little louder this time. Her hand was poised on the edge of the shelf, ready to take the cat out. There was something else too. She stood still for a moment.

It was breathing. Quiet, measured, but definitely breathing.

Kim felt her blood run cold. She held her breath and heard her heart thumping in her ears. Slowly, she eased the cabinet door shut.

Her eye was caught by the glint of something wet, dripping in the shadows behind the cabinet. Kim's throat went dry as she peered around the corner and through a veil of cobwebs.

There was a face there, glaring back at her.

She almost fell, stumbling backwards, scrambling away from the stairs. She backed into a pole, then slid off and scraped her hip on a piece of plywood sitting on top of some sawhorses. She finally lost her footing on a sheet of plastic, falling heavily to her side right into a pile of sawdust. She started sneezing.

The face was motionless for a moment, then grew larger as its owner moved out into the light. Through her sneezing and coughing, Kim managed only a weak croak of a cry. But in her own mind, she was screaming herself hoarse.

At first, she wasn't sure it was a man. The face was all wrong. His head was massive, misshapen, long in the snout and thick with crusty black scales, glistening wet and dripping something. Several times, his swollen jaw snapped open and shut, revealing fangs, wicked incisors jagged teeth in parallel rows, all drooling mud and scum. His breathing was now labored, a hollow, metallic hiss, the same hiss she had heard coming down the stairs.

Below his head were the snakes. At first, Kim's mind had refused to admit the evidence of her own eyes. The shadows under the stairs had concealed the truth, but now in the harsh glare of the fluorescent tubes, there was no denying it.

The man, the beast, the thing that stood before her was covered almost from head to feet with snakes, dozens, maybe scores of them, brown, black, scarlet and green, gray mottled vipers and rattlers, moccasins and bushmasters, writhing and slithering and oozing out of every pore it seemed like, an undulating wet mass of living, breathing, hissing tissue churning and snapping right before her eyes. Even as she watched, a muddy brown snake snapped at the head of a black king snake, coiled around the man's waist, and slowly, with methodical determination, began swallowing the unfortunate one whole. Others hovered over the man's shoulder, swaying to some inner rhythm, or curled about his thighs and slid smoothly from front to back by way of his crotch. It seemed as if, by the very act of standing still, the man could shift and change and make himself over. His skin was alive and throbbing.

He was holding something, Kim soon realized, holding things in hands she hadn't seen at first under the mass of all those snakes. When she had gotten her breath back, she realized the intruder held a pair of small packets in one hand and a torn piece of an old quilt they had tossed into the basement in the other. She didn't have time to wonder why.

Awkwardly, Kim started to get up. She stopped halfway when the man gestured violently—the movement startled her and she sat back down in the sawdust again. She sat there for a moment, mesmerized by the coils of snakes, curious and terrified at the same time. He was so big—

The man flicked out an arm again and tossed off a pair of snakes that had been clinging to his wrist. They landed at the edge of the sawdust, one on each side of her, neatly blocking her escape; mottled brown cottonmouth moccasins, hissing, tasting the air with their tongues, ready to pounce at the slightest provocation.

Horrified, Kim scrambled under the sawhorses on her hands and feet, kicking dust on the nearer snake as she moved. It lunged and fastened itself to the sash of her robe.

Kim cried out and knocked the sawhorses over trying to get away. She wriggled out of her robe as fast as she could and slung it away in disgust. The moccasin disengaged and wriggled through the dust after her.

At first, she didn't see the snake-man coming toward her. Somehow, in the midst of the commotion, as Kim crawled and stumbled toward the back wall, the intruder had managed to get between her and the stairs, sealing off her best chance to get away. With the snakes closing in from one side, he inched forward, holding out the hand with the packets, leering down at her, leaving a trail of black silty water across the basement floor.

She was trapped.

Kim could see that she was working her way into a corner. Nearly blinded by sawdust and sweat, her pajamas torn and soaked red from a score of cuts and scrapes, she finally managed to force out a hoarse scream.

"DAAAAAADY!! DAAAAAADDY, HELP!"

He was on her in a flash, moving much faster than she thought him capable. With the piece of quilt, he throttled her next cry and nearly choked her. At first, she didn't resist—she was staring at a coiling viper right in the eye—but when the snake-man started to hoist her up, she wriggled free and backed away, screaming at the top of her voice.

"DAAAADDDYYY--!!"

Then she spied the hatchet, hanging from the tool rack overhead. It was her only chance. If she could only reach it....

The upstairs door burst open and a pair of legs came stumbling down the steps. It was Bart Millen, half-undressed, waving the pistol he kept next to his bed.

"Kim! Kim! Are you all right? Are you—" He stopped at the bottom of the steps as the snake-man whirled around. "What the hell—"

Before he could react, the intruder fled toward the other side of the basement. He scrambled up the cinder block wall, clambering over the edge of a jimmied window and skulked off into the night. Bart waved the gun in his direction but never fired. He was too stunned by the sight to remember to pull the trigger.

"Daddy--!"

Kim's hysterical voice brought him back. She was bunched into the corner, stalked from two sides by the snakes the intruder had left behind.

"Don't move," he told her. "Don't move an inch."

"Hurry," she whined.

Bart crouched and took a few steps forward. "Slide me that hatchet, honey. Slide it across the floor."

"I'm scared—"

"Just do what I tell you. "it's gonna be okay. Slide it right over."

She tossed the hatchet at him and it clanged off the concrete. Bart picked it up. "Just stand still a second. I'll see if I can get their attention." He took a deep breath, trying to size up the situation.

They had her boxed in completely. Neither snake was more than five feet away. What was worse, they were close enough together so that if he lunged at the head of one, he risked being bitten by the other. Somehow, he had to get them further apart. He had to distract them away from Kim before they could strike.

He chanced a glance up at the tool rack. There was a long, wooden level hanging there.

"Reach up and get that level, honey."

Her lips were trembling. "I...can't."

"Yes you can." He would have to be careful with what he said. She was on the verge of panic now. "Just do it slow and easy. That's it—"

She reached overhead, without turning to look, and groped for the level. She didn't dare take her eyes off the snakes. At last, her fingers came to it and she lifted the instrument off its nail hooks and then promptly dropped it. The smack startled the snakes and they coiled tighter, hissing and advancing closer.

"Dad...Daddy...help—"

"Kick it to me, Kim. Kick it over here."

She nudged it with the toe of slippers just close for Bart to stretch and reach it. Holding the level gingerly by one end, he jabbed at the nearer snake. It flared up and hissed, then wriggled up onto the end of the level. Quickly, Bart flung the thing as far away as he could, the snake cartwheeling through the air with it. It came to rest underneath the workbench, ten feet away. For the moment, the odds were more even.

He concentrated on getting into position to have a go at the other snake's head. Already, it was almost at Kim's feet, twisting back and forth across the cement floor, still covered with sawdust. Its fangs flashed, ready to strike, and as it lunged for Kim's leg, she jumped barely in time to avoid it. Bart brought the hatchet down hard.

The moccasin jerked and flipped as the hatchet chewed through and struck the cement with a clang. It quivered a few seconds, still whipping mindlessly, but it was dead and smashed and in a minute, completely still. But they had no time to take a breath. The other snake was bearing down on them.

Bart crouched low, putting himself between Kim and the snake. He was painfully aware of how exposed he was. The snake stopped a few feet away and coiled itself around a piece of two-by-four lying on the floor. Bart's hand was slick with sweat; he took the moment to rub it dry on his pajama shirt. His heart was thudding as he watched the snake uncoil itself and wriggled toward them.

It was over before he had taken another breath. The snake reared its wedge-shaped head and swayed for a second, sensing its trembling target. Bart gripped the hatchet tighter.

They moved at the same time.

The beast leaped for his leg just as Bart swung the blade down as hard as he could. At first, he thought he had missed its head completely; he never felt the impact. The force of the swing knocked him sideways and as he was falling, he saw the snake's head thump against the wall, spraying its milky white blood everywhere. The snake's body and tail continued twitching for a while, finally coming to rest at Kim's feet.

He shivered and shuddered for a few minutes, while drops of cold sweat ran down Kim's face. It was over. Finally. She stood up and ran a shaking hand through her hair. It was soaked, plastered to her forehead and scalp. Gooseflesh made her tremble again. She coughed and spat out a wad of sawdust and phlegm.

They rushed into each other's arms.

"It's alright, honey," he rocked her back and forth, feeling her body convulse with sobs. "Everything's gonna be alright. You're okay...it's okay...sssshhhh...."

"He tried to choke me," she murmured into the folds of his pajamas. "I was...I was—"

"Shhh...just be quiet. It's over now."

He looked up when he heard soft footsteps at the top of the staircase. It was Sarah, followed by Dean and Julie.

"Bart, is that you making all that noise? What in the world is going on?" She came down a few steps and crouched by the railing, looking out into the basement. When she saw her husband holding onto Kim, she gasped and nearly fell through. Dean scampered down the stairs, wide-eyed.

"My God, Bart—are you okay—are you hurt--?" She scrambled down the stairs, following Dean, and came to him. They both stopped short when they saw the dead snakes.

"What is--?"

"We're okay," he told her. He peeled Kim off of him. "Just stay where you are, all of you." He realized he had nicked himself with the hatchet—a trickle of blood had run down his leg and onto the floor.

"Gross," said Dean. He looked carefully at the tear-streaked face of his sister. "Did she get bit?"

Saran clutched her hands nervously and was grateful when Julie came up to comfort her. "How did they get in here?" She made a face and backed away.

Kim brushed herself off and stood there staring numbly at the dead snakes. "A man brought them in."

"A man?"

She ran to her mother's arms and held on tightly, while Bart poked the snakes out of the way with the end of the level and shooed Dean away. Kim shivered and buried her head against Sarah's chest. Sarah noticed her daughter's heart was still thudding loudly.

"A man covered with snakes, underneath the stairs. He tried to choke me. When Daddy came, he went out that window. It was horrible—"

"Let's get her upstairs," Bart said. "She's had a terrible night."

Sarah stroked his face when he came over, smoothing back the sweaty hair from his eyes. "You're not hurt, are you?"

Bart shook his head. "A few cuts and scrapes. I didn't get bit."

"Honey, you're bleeding. Let me get you a rag and some bandages."

"See about Kim first. I'd better go and call Sheriff Tatum," he told her.

"Not until we've got you both cleaned up and properly bandaged. You could get infected or something worse. Come on."

They all trudged upstairs, Julie helping Kim negotiate the steps. She was still wobbly from the ordeal. Sarah made them all sit quietly in the kitchen. She ordered Julie to fix some coffee—milk for Kim-and Dean to go find some gauze and dressing. "Are you sure those things are dead down there? You know I won't be able to slink a wink unless I know for sure." Dean returned and Sarah fixed up bandages for Bart and a cold wet rag for Kim. Sarah went over to her daughter. "Here, let me wash your face. We have to wash those cuts real good."

Kim slurped her milk silently, while Sarah cleaned her face up. She seldom got any attention unless she was sick or hurt. Sarah fussed over her and Bart. It was ten minutes before she was satisfied they would live.

Bart sat down wearily in the leather recliner by the television set. Julie brought him the phone. He dialed the Sheriff's office and reported the break-in. Then he settled back to try and relax. The clock said it was nearly 2 am.

An hour later, Sheriff Tatum arrived.

"She going to be okay?" he asked, as Bart showed him down the stairs into the basement.

"Frightened. But she'll live."

Tatum was a big beefy man, with a dirt blond crew-cut. His pants always seemed about to fall off. "Looks like you went wrestling in a pile of sawdust."

"I just about did." He pointed. "There they are. He ran off just as I came down, out through that window."

Tatum went over and scuffed at the snakes for a moment. "Cottonmouth," he muttered. "Deadly little buggers. You were both lucky."

Bart stood by the stairs. He didn't say anything.

Tatum prowled around the basement for a while, prodding more and more details out of Bart until he was satisfied he had his part of the story. Questioning Kim would be more difficult—she looked to be in shock. He had a notepad sticking out of his back pocket, but he never used it. He spied the now dry trail of black water leading to the open window and squatted down with a grunt to get a better look. He rubbed some of the silt between his fingers. "River silt, I'd say. Or maybe a creek somewhere. And you say he was covered with all these snakes?"

Bart nodded. Dean was sitting on the steps above him, chin resting on his knees.

"Ain't nothing much here I can use for evidence, except for the snakes. Nothing valuable was stolen?"

"Not so far as I can determine. You going to talk with Kim now?"

"I reckon I'll have to." They headed back to the stairs. "I won't be long."

They went back up to the kitchen and Tatum lowered himself into a chair at the table opposite Kim. He thanked Sarah for the coffee.

"Looks like you had quite a night, young lady." Kim stared down at her milk. "Feel like answering a few questions?"

She shrugged. "Okay."

"Did he hurt you anywhere?"

Kim nodded. "He tried to choke me."

"Did he say anything to you?"

She shook her head and idly jammed her hands into her robe. There was something in the pocket—Tatum was stirring his coffee, not looking—it felt like.... Kim frowned, running her fingers along the object.

It was a tiny doll. Another Little Captain. That man had put it in her robe pocket before leaving. She looked up to find Sheriff Tatum studying her face.

"Something wrong?"

Kim tried to smile; she imagined it came out more like a grimace. "No, sir. I was just thinking."

Tatum's eyes narrowed. "About what?"

She had to think fast. "How scary it was...that man I mean." She shuddered. "All those snakes."

Tatum sat back in his chair and regarded her over the steaming lip of his coffee cup. "Have you ever seen this man before, Kim? Anywhere? Ever heard of him before?"

"No," she lied. "I hope I never do either." She yawned and stretched a little.

"How did you happen to be in the basement anyway?"

Kim told him the story of the scratching noise she had heard. Tatum asked her why she didn't get her father to investigate.

"I couldn't sleep. I thought it was a cat. I like cats."

"Weren't you scared of what you might find?"

Kim frowned at him. What we he getting at? She'd have to watch what she said, otherwise, they would find out.

"Sure I was scared."

"Why'd you go down there then?"

Why had she gone down there?

"I was looking for something."

"What?"

Kim looked over at her father, who nodded silently back.

She took a deep breath. "I was looking for that little toy cat Mama and Daddy got me once. I had a dream about it and I wanted to find it."

Tatum seemed disappointed but there was nothing he could do. He pushed back the chair and stood up. "I guess that's about all I'll be needing for now."

"Can you catch him?" Bart asked.

"Don't have much to go. It'll be hard."

Bart showed him to the door. "It's a strange way for a burglar to act, isn't it?"

Tatum scratched his beard with his fingers and shrugged. "Maybe. They're all pretty odd to me. I figure it was probably that young Marine that went AWOL the other day. I'll keep the case open, just in case." He said good night to everyone, an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth. "I doubt we'll ever catch him, whoever it was. Some transient loony, most likely. Same as your maid."

Before he left, Tatum helped Bart dispose of the two dead snakes in the woods back of their house. Tatum wanted to look at the outside of the window as well. "Pried open with a crowbar, looks like." He ran his finger along the splintered wood where the window had been forced. Dean was still down in the basement, prowling around. He waved at them through the window. "Murcer's Hardware could fix this easy, if you call them."

Bart shook hands. "Thanks for coming out like this in the middle of the night. You're getting to be a regular around here."

Tatum snorted. "I wasn't doing anything but arguing with Ginny anyway."

"You two going to get back together?"

Tatum waggled his hands. "Who knows? I might go buy me a good hunting dog instead."

They said good-bye and Bart went back into the house. He made sure the door was locked tight. For good measure, he checked all the windows in the house as well.

"All right, gang, it's still dark out. Everybody back to bed." He watched as Kim got up and poured herself some more milk. "You going to be okay, honey?"

"Sure, I'm fine." She never did look at him and Bart winced at the gulf that had grown between them. It always takes a crisis to bring this family together. He saw that Sarah was thinking the same thing and smiled ruefully.

"Where's Dean?"

They heard footsteps coming up the basement stairs. Sarah opened the door. It was Dean. "What are you doing down there?"

He shut the door behind him. "Nothing. Just looking around. It's scary down there at night."

"Time for bed," Bart said. "I don't want to her any complaining either."

They turned out all the lights and trudged back to their bedrooms. "Oh, Dad—" Dean reached into his bathrobe pocket. I found something down there. Beside that green cabinet." He pulled out a tiny stitched back with a cord tie looped through one end.

Bart took the pouch. "What is it? Something you dropped?"

"It's not mine."

Bart turned the thing over, curious, wondering. "Feels like it's got dirt inside of it." He rummaged in his dresser for a small pen knife and slit the pouch over the bathroom sink. Yellowish powder and bits and leaves and bark poured out. There was a tiny wooden statuette as well, painted up to look like an eighteenth century sailor. Another Little Captain.

Kim said nothing. She groped for the doll in her own pocket and held on to it.

Sarah groaned when she saw it. "Not another one."

"Our midnight visitor must have dropped it. I'll bet the Sheriff would like to see this. Now we have a connection."

"But it's so late. He's probably back at his office by now."

Bart thought for a moment. "I guess it can wait. I'll drop it by his office in the morning."

Sarah took Kim back to her room. "You look tired and pale, honey. Are you sure you're all right?"

Kim nodded and climbed into bed, yawning as she pulled the covers over her legs. "I'm fine, Mama. Really. You don't have to worry."

Sarah bent over the bed and gave her a quick peck on the forehead. "I do worry, Kim. I want to see you happy again, now that we've settled down."

"I'm happy, Mama. I've made all kinds of new friends since we moved here."

Sarah smiled and kissed her again. "I'm glad. That's what you need." She went to the door and turned out the light. "Try and get some sleep now." She shut the door softly.

Kim spent the rest of the night staring at the family of Little Captains she had propped up on her night table, giggling at their faint and mysterious whisperings.

2.

It was near dawn, cool and still and damp by the soggy edge of Dingle Creek, when Cazzie Banks and Lucius Wright came sauntering through the pine woods with their poles and lines to do a little fishing. The sky was lavender, fingers of light playing with the clouds that still scudded low across the face of the starlit night. It was the best time for summer flounder and creek shrimp, the fowl-crowin' time was how Cazzie's Grandma Sadie May put it, the time when the tide was high and the creeks and rivers and streams were fir to bursting with good things.

Lucius spied his favorite tree stump and jabbed the butt of his pole in the mud. "Right here's the place. They's alive all around us. Caint' you hear 'em?"

Cazzie stood by the water and swirled his pole in the murky stream. "I don't hear nothing. Let's sit for a while." He smoothed himself out a bed of pine straw and sat down, whipping out the graining fork he had made the day before by splicing some whittled down tree limbs together and tying on part of a leaf rake Grandma had given him. It was the best way to catch flounder, although they'd have to wait awhile for the tide to go down. You could see 'em ten, flat, cream-colored, dishlike things, fluttering around half-buried in the mud. Lucius had brought a tin pail for both of them.

They sat quietly for a while, after casting a line out into the sluggish water of the creek. From time to time, Lucius would settle his pole good and firm in the mud and go squat with a crooked oak stick near a tidal pool on the other side of the tree stump. He would stare down at the pool for several minutes, then get down on his hands and knees and squint in the dim light at the creek mud around the edges. After a while, he would jab the stick down in the mud and, when he had worked it around real good for a while, he'd pull it out and there clinging to the bottom of the stick would be a fat, juicy crab, clawing away at the air. Lucius would grin at it, poke it with his finger for a moment, then dump it in his pail and go back to his fishing. If he wasn't the best crab-getter in the whole village of Sweetbranch, he didn't know a worm from a buzzard.

Cazzie and Lucius came down to Dingle Creek just about every day during the spring and summer, just before dawn, to do their fishing. They liked the heavy stillness that descended over the woods in the dying hours of the night, and that cool, cloying wet smell of the creek water and the oleander leaves. It was the best time of the day, as far as Lucius was concerned, and when he wasn't attending to his lines or poking in the mud for cabs, he liked to lay back against the tree stump and make creepy looking creatures like the "Konga Kat" out of bark and vine and fishing line, things he'd often used to scare the wits out of Tony Jeter and Coley Lucas, when they wouldn't let him play football. Someday, he told himself in this quiet, reflective hours before sun-up, someday he'd be able to run and jump and throw like Tony Jeter. Being star running back for the Bay County Pelicans wasn't all that much anyway.

Lucius shut his eyes and yawned. He was still sleepy and he didn't much think he'd sit on the banks of the creek quite as long today. If he did, he was pretty sure his Momma would find him right quickly and have him doing chores for the rest of the day.

Cazzie got up and stretched, fixing his pole at a higher angle so it wouldn't slip out of the mud. He looked up at the sky. The clouds were blowing away, crimson and orange cotton balls.

"Almos' daybruck," he said.

Lucius nodded silently. "Yup."

"Ent hear no cooters this mornin' either."

"Too late for them." The giant loggerhead turtles liked to come ashore on clear moonlit nights and lay their eggs. Sometimes, when the wind was right, you could hear them scratching in the sand, mooing softly.

They heard a rustling deep in the woods behind them.

"That Elgin's dog I hear?"

Cazzie sat up and strained to catch the sound. "Mos' likely."

"Sounds kinda heavy for him, don't it?"

Cazzie stood up and peered off into the trees, trying to catch a glimpse of the mutt through the vines and underbrush. He cocked an ear.

"Hey, Cazzie, I ax you a question."

"Hush up, man, what you want?" Cazzie climbed up the bank to the edge of the woods and crouched there. The rustling was getting nearer and Cazzie's eyes narrowed to a slit. "That ain't no dog."

Lucius watched his friend for a second, then laughed and turned back to his daydreaming. "You looks like a dog yourself, up there. You got a bite on your line, you know."

Cazzie was torn between staying up by the tree line and seeing about his fishing pole. He listened awhile longer, then gave up and slid back down the mud to where his pole was wobbling. "Marsh tackey, I guess."

Lucius snickered. "No it ain't. It's the Konga Kat." He chuckled.

They both lay back for a while, but Cazzie's ears were tuned to the forest. That rustling hadn't disappeared. If anything, it had gotten louder. It was an audible tramp now, something heavy pushing its way through the limbs. He swallowed hard.

Lucius heard it too and looked over, catching Cazzie's eyes. "That sure is a big dog."

Cazzie sat perfectly still. "mm-hmm." He didn't move a muscle. Whatever it was, it was coming their way. Big and tall and heavy, the tromp-tromp-tromp was beginning to drown out the gurgling of Dingle Creek. Cazzie saw his hands trembling around the fishing pole. He made himself let go. They could hear its breathing too—a hollow sucking and hissing. A flock of crows screeched and fluttered away from the tree behind them.

"Cazzie--?"

"Uh huh?"

Nothing more was said. The thumping had stopped. The breeze had picked up, blowing from out of the woods across the creek. A strong odor of musk wafted by.

And the breathing was right in their ears.

Cazzie and Lucius stood up together. The sound of the next gust of breath sent a chill down their spines. Cazzie was the first to turn around.

He tried to swallow but his throat was completely dry.

There standing above them on the edge of the creek bank was a towering thing of wet scaly skin and armored hide, black and throbbing, leaves and pine straw and dirt clinging to it like a big fat slug, framed between two mossy trees, and glaring down at them with fire-red eyes that glowed like hot coals in the darkness. It had a great big flat spade of a head and it snorted air and water and God knew what else, wheezing and breathing like it had a bad cold, hissing at them like a sea serpent.

"Uh-oh," stammered Cazzie. He was already backing down toward the creek, the water swirling around his ankles.

"It's de play-eye!" yelled Lucius. He broke into a run, scrambling along the bank through a thicket of kudzu, dragging his tin pail behind. "Come on! Let's get out of here!"

Cazzie was stumbling after him. "It's de Alligator Man!" He splashed through the shallow waters of the creek, hopping and floundering and kicking to keep up. He only looked back once, just enough to see the Alligator Man lumbering after them. He tripped on a rock on the creek bed and fell headfirst into the water. But he was up and lunging for the banks in a second. He threw his fishing pole down and went tumbling after Lucius.

They could hear the beast after them, crashing through the woods not fifty yards behind. For a few minutes, there was a wild chase and Cazzie told Lucius later there was a moment when he could feel the hot breath of the Alligator Man on his neck, just feel that poisonous hot breath like it was going to scorch him for good. "I was runnin'," he told Lucius, "but my feet they weren't workin' right, I weren't getting' nowhere. I jus' knew he was gone get me for sure." They both cut a swath through the thick undergrowth and Lucius nearly lost an eye when a tree limb swatted him in the face. When they finally slowed down to catch their breath, both of them were cut and slashed on their faces and arms and Cazzie had a tuft of thorns in his right leg. They were bleeding and winded and badly scraped, but they didn't dare stop.

"Where'd he go?" yelled Lucius. They were running again, not as hard, just loping at an easy pace. Cazzie was limping, looking over his shoulder from time to time. They both wanted to get as far from Dingle Creek as they could. "I don' see him now."

Cazzie was wheezing, stumbling further behind. "I think he gone into the creek back there. I shum wade out and go under the water. Let's stop a minute, okay Lucius?" Cazzie limped to a halt and sat down heavily in the dirt. He winced, rubbing at the cuts on his legs and face. Lucius came back and squatted next to him.

"Where are we?"

Cazzie groaned. "I ent know. But I cain't go much further. Look at that—" His face screwed up with pain as he pulled a thorn out—"ah...ah...." He threw the briar away and rubbed the spot. "That hurts—"

Lucius stood up and looked all around. Despite the faint glow of sunlight, it was still dark on the floor of the forest and he couldn't see very far through the pine and chinaberry trees. The air was thick with gnats and mosquitos and a dim but light mist was rolling through the brambles, creeping up from the Broad River a short distance away.

"We cain't stay here. I know that Alligator Man seen where we went."

"Where do you s'pose we are?"

"In the woods."

"I know that."

"I don' know." He pointed to the mist. "This way is the river. Got to be. Tother way—" he shrugged. "See if you cain't get up and hold on to me. We'll just saddle on till we finds somethin'."

Cazzie got to his feet and draped an arm around Lucius' neck. Together, they hobbled through the trees, conscious of every strange sound or movement in the brush. The morning sun finally rose up high enough to peek through the branches, slowly burning off the mist. The air became hot and muggy, oppressive with insects of every kind, but that didn't matter. The spears of bright sunlight coming down from the trees made them feel a lot better.

In time, they spied a tiny but unmistakable row of lights through the trees—porch lighting, they looked like. They grinned and laughed at each other and, for a moment at least, Cazzie felt strong enough to walk on his own, albeit with a bad limp. The wounds on his legs were red and already festering.

It turned out to be a small cottage, white-washed with lime and sporting wooden shutters painted a dark cobalt blue. The cabin itself was raised up off the ground on big cement blocks, for better drainage. In the spring and summer, storms and hurricanes often swept the tidewaters in a great deal further than usual. And there were cockroaches and lice to worry about.

The cabin was all wood, some of it brown and crumbly with rot. There was a stooped old chinaberry tree out front, with a lantern swinging gently from one of the branches. On the front porch were some potted plants and a red geranium in a tin lard bucket. Around to the side, nearly hidden by vines and moss, were a sweet potato patch and a small vegetable garden. On the other side was a well sweep with a long wooden beam and some gourds that looked like a short telephone pole with crosspieces.

All across the front porch, hanging baskets of flowers were arranged. Two more lanterns were among them. It was these lights they had seen from the woods.

Cazzie and Lucius went up to the porch. They were met at the door by a tall, rangy, athletic-looking man, a bald man with a bullet-shaped head and a trim goatee and moustache. He was shirtless and barefoot and he was holding a small stick in one hand and a big glossy picture book in the other.

Lucius spoke to him. "We's chased by de Alligator Man and Cazzie here's got cut with a briar in the woods." His eyes narrowed and he looked around. "You han't seen the Alligator Man, have you?"

The tall man didn't do anything but glare at them for a minute. He put the stick in his mouth like a crooked cigar and began chewing on it.

"This yoonah house here?"

The tall guy stared down, gnawing on his stick.

"Kin you talk?"

Then a voice drifted out from the cabin. "Riley, who's at the door?" They heard a pan dropping, clanging on the floor. Then a rustle of clothes swishing. Finally, a face appeared in the darkened doorway, peering out over Riley's shoulder. It was a stolid, doughy, squinty-eyed face that frowned at them.

"What you kids want this time of day?"

Lucius told her what they had tried to tell Riley. "He won't say nothing."

The woman told them her name was Lettie Hatch. "Riley ain't got no tongue. Cain't hear either. You got to look at him before you speak, so he can see your lips. What you want anyway? How'd you find this house?"

Lucius related the whole story of what happened, how they had been chased through the woods by the Alligator Man, and how he might this very minute be lurking behind the bushes over there, ready to chase them again and eat them.

Lettie snorted and pushed open the screen door. She was a stout, but sturdy woman and she looked like a lopsided basketball when she walked across the porch to the steps. She had a necklace of beads and shells around her neck. "The Alligator Man, you say."

"Yup. Tall as that tree over there. That's the onliest time I ever seen him. I don' want to see him no more."

Lettie fingered her beads for a moment, frowning. She scanned the front yard, puckering her lips, then snorted again in disbelief. "Never heard of such." She bent over and saw where Cazzie was still bleeding, favoring his right leg. "You better get inside and let me fix that cut, child."

Without a word of instruction, Riley stooped down and scooped Cazzie up in his arms. Cazzie was too shocked to say anything. Lucius followed them into the cabin.

Inside, it was dark, except for the lantern hanging over the fireplace. There was a black kettle hanging by a wire from an iron rod screwed into the brick; it dangled over the fire and whistled faintly, steam shooting out of the spout. The cabin had one room, divided by hanging curtains into quarters. There was a sagging bed, more of a mattress than anything else, in one corner, with dresses hanging from nails in the walls nearby. As their eyes grew accustomed to the dark, they saw a place for Riley in another corner, an old tattered rug with a faded red blanket crumpled on top. There was a straight back wooden chair with knitted cushions in the third corner, and a small wobbly table in the fourth, beside the fireplace. Lettie set herself down on the stone of the fireplace and lifted the kettle from its perch. She poured a cup each for Cazzie and Lucius, then fixed them up with some bread and sorghum syrup and set them both a place at the table.

Riley lay down by the light of the fire and was soon engrossed in his picture book. Lucius read the title: Stars of the Modern Rodeo.

Lettie set another place at the table, complete with steaming cup of tea and paper napkin with bread and syrup. But instead of sitting here herself, she chose to settle in the straight back chair, after fussing with the cushions for a moment. The third setting at the table remained empty.

Lettie saw the puzzlement on Lucius' face. She sipped her tea gently, then said, "It's for Earl. My husband."

Lucius nodded his understanding. "Is he out in the woods?"

"No, Earl's dead. He died quite a while ago; his heart jus' give out, the doctors say. But he visits from time to time." She took a healthier sip, satisfied with the explanation. Lucius looked at Cazzie.

"You know there ain't no such thing as the Alligator Man."

"We seen him ourselves. Right out there."

Lettie shook her head, still sipping at the tea. "You jus' thought you seen him. It was your mind that did it. Believe me, I know about things like that." She rubbed the beads again. "I know a lot about the hag-hollerin' time and there ain't no such things as the Alligator Man."

Cazzie started to protest but Lettie waved him quiet.

"I know what you're thinkin'. You thinkin' I'm jus' talking to keep you from being scared. But that ain't it." She sipped some tea and swished it around in her mouth for a second. "No, sir, that ain't it at all. What you saw was the woods spirit. The plat-eye, the evil eye, tellin' you not to come disturbing where you was. There's things going on in these woods that you don' understand and the plat-eye he wants to protect you. And he made you run so's you wouldn't get hurt." She threw a stern glance their way. "You should be glad of that. You are glad, aren't you?"

Cazzie and Lucius both nodded vehemently. Lucius added, "But it looked jus' like the Alligator Man."

"That don't make no difference at all. The plat-eye looks like what he looks like." Lettie got up and hobbled over to the screen door. "Sun's comin' up now. Plat-eye won't be around." She stood there for a moment, thinking, rubbing her hands together nervously. A squadron of gnats banged on the screen in front of her. Finally, she turned around and came over to the table. "Finish up your tea and bread and be off with you. Riley and me got our chores to do."

Cazzie waited until she had left to go tend to the kettle, then dug a finger into the syrup jar and dished out enough to fill his mouth with. Lucius pushed his chair back and got up.

"What if de plat-eye comes back?" he asked her. "We's a long way from our house."

Lettie appeared to consider that information. "Where are you from?"

"Sweetbranch," they both said. "We was fishing at Dingle Creek when de Alli--er, de plat-eye came by."

"Mm-hmm." Lettie thought a minute. Her face glowed cherry red with the fire's reflection. "I'll get Riley to walk you back to the road. There's a highway 'bout ten minutes from here, goes down to Savannah. You can walk back to Bayville the other way."

She sheparded them out of the cabin, after kicking Riley awake, and saw them off safely to the path in the woods that led to the road. "You don' go fishing at Dingle Creek anymore," she called after them. "You don' belong around there." She watched them disappear through the trees and when they were gone, she hurried back up to the porch and into the cabin, pausing only a second to scan the woods for anything out of the ordinary. She didn't see anything but magnolias and oaks and wisteria vines, and armies of mosquitos circling the big smudge pots out front. But that didn't stop her from trembling. She clasped her hands together and her fingers groped for the beads. The shakes is gone be bad today. Real bad. Her hand shook so hard that it broke the necklace. All the beads rolled off onto the porch.

Lettie stared down at what she had done. She peered into the woods again, hoping to see something, anything, just a small portent that might mean she was wrong. The trees answered her with silence.

Them boys has done gone and found Daddy X. Sure as I'm a cripple, they done found him.

She bit her lip and wondered if she should try and stoop down to collect all her beads. She knew she might not be able to get up again. Riley would have to do it when he got back. But it was a long walk down to the highway and Riley sometimes....

It was all very disturbing. She had felt it when she got up this morning. The needle-like twinge in her shoulder was a warning. They's bad mouth in the air. She could feel it all right, right there in her shoulder. The pain didn't lie. Even Riley felt it. He'd burned himself on the hot stone of the fireplace right after they had gotten the fire going.

And then those boys had shown up.

Lettie forgot about her beads for the moment. It was nearby, out there beyond the trees. She couldn't see it, she couldn't hear it, but she could feel it. She could feel him, watching.

She went into her cabin and scrounged in the small oaken chest by the side of her bed. Among the stitched pouches and mandrake roots and dried frog's tongues, she found a tiny bottle, an old perfume bottle not filled with perfume but with something much more precious, much more powerful. She shook it and the gray powder inside coated the sides of the bottle.

Crushed powder of the life everlasting root. It was what she needed.

She searched another chest and came up with a small wooden doll, made of smooth pine, thickly varnished and painted. She took the doll and the powder outside and went down the steps to a spot about twenty feet in front of the cabin, in the shade of a chinaberry tree. Huge, knobby roots poked up above the ground where she stood, forming a semi-circle with the open side facing the porch. Here, she scuffed at the dirt with the heel of her shoe, until she had a depression deep enough to hold the doll.

She sprinkled root powder carefully in the doll's face, then more liberally along the length of its body. Her hands were shaking so bad that most of it fell to the ground. When she was satisfied, she squatted as low as she dared and dropped the doll into the hole. It landed face down. That wasn't good. She kicked it over until it was face up, then hurriedly scuffed dirt over it until there was a small mound. Only then did she begin to relax.

Now, at least, she had a small measure of protection. She studied her work for a second, then scuttled back into the cabin and latched the screen door securely. Riley should be back soon.

She went to the kettle and poured herself some more tea. Then she dragged the straight back chair over to the door and sat down in it, looking out. It was just after sun-up, porch-setting time by her reckoning, but she wasn't going out there anymore until Riley came home. She settled back in the chair and touched the scalding tea to her lips.

What had stirred Daddy X to life after all these years of quiet?

She wasn't sure but it didn't matter. Newcomers mos' likely. They's everywhere.

One thing was certain. Next time she paid a visit to Dr. Spider, she would tell him the boys' story. He would know what to do.

It wasn't the first time Daddy X had come calling.
Chapter 4

1.

Sarah Millen sat down in the chair by Wally Voss' desk and searched for some hint in Wally's face about the outcome of her real estate exams. Wally was enjoying the moment, solemnly studying the score sheet of the booklet while he adjusted his reading glasses.

"Wally, please. Don't just sit there."

Wally smiled and dropped the papers on his desk. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "Welcome aboard."

Sarah's mouth dropped open. She didn't know what to do with her hands. "You mean I passed? I—really--?"

He pushed the booklet toward her. "You practically aced he thing. The Board may change the test after this."

"Oh, Wally...I—it's wonderful. I was so scared. I studied for weeks. You just don't know—" She smiled sheepishly. "Well, I guess you do know, after all. I mean without you—"

Wally waved it off. "You're a good student. How about a drink to celebrate?" He got up and went over to the bar in the corner; it was in the shape of huge globe, with the upper half opened like a lid. "You take gin, don't you?"

"Please." Sarah rubbed her hands nervously. She looked around the office, paneled in sandalwood, studying the photos of various construction projects the firm had been involved in. Wally figured prominently in all of them. "I'm so excited about all this. Wait'll I tell Bart. I'll do all right, won't I, Wally?"

He handed her the drink and sat on the edge of his desk, sipping his own Bourbon and water. You'll do fine, believe me. With Wally Voss running the show, you're a cinch to make the Million-Dollar Club in two years. Maybe one."

Sarah took a deep breath and drank her gin with both hands on the glass. "It was Bart that pushed me into this, you know. I would never have had the nerve if he hadn't. He bet me a dinner at the Wharf and Anchor that I wouldn't get this far. He doesn't think I have the courage to do something like this." She downed the rest of her gin and her face flushed red for a moment. "He'll have to pay up now."

"I'm sure he won't mind."

"Oh, you don't know Bart. He has trouble seeing himself the equal of anyone. He's either got to be better or he's not interested." Sarah looked at the drops in the bottom of the glass. "I did this as much for me as for him. We need the money but it's more than that. I guess I need to prove something—did you know he called "Old Lady" the other day? The first time. I think his heart's still in the Navy--deep down inside, I know he blames me for making him get out. Which is true enough, I suppose. Wally, I don't want to be an appendage. I really don't. I don't want to be useless. Bart—you know—he respects strong people, that's his way."

Wally reached over and took her hands in his. "Believe me, I understand. We'll make him proud of you."

She swallowed and nodded. "I don't know what a girl would do without you, Wally. A kiss here, a compliment there. A lot of praise and encouragement. I couldn't have done it without you."

Wally beamed. "It's all in the style, ma'am. Here, let me show you something." He led her over to an outsized map of Bay County on the wall. "That's your territory. Most of your business is going to be here though, right on good old Hilton Head. That's where the money is."

"Have we got any prospects yet?"

"A few. But like I said, the market's tight right now. You're going to be in residential real estate for the time being. Selling houses, condos, that sort of thing. I've got enough to do with this Windward Green project."

"Will I have a company car?"

Wally laughed. "I'm not that big yet. Sell a few houses and maybe I can afford one. And let me tell you something about the average Hilton Head homebuyer."

"He's filthy rich?"

"Well, he's that too. But the main thing to remember is this: they're all discriminating people, or think they are. Taste and style impress them. They eat up elegance, especially if it's subdued. This is no Cadillac society down there. It's Mercedes and Lexus country all the way."

"Sort of laid back then."

"Right. Laid back...and plowed under. You be alert to that. Don't come on too strong. Come in under the rug and get 'em by the ankles. These people love to have their money stroked. Just keep your fingers in your pockets until you've got 'em on the hook. It's all undersell here—let the French pastry speak for itself. Give 'em a bite and they'll lick your hand all the way to the contract. Got it?"

Sarah nodded, squeezing his hand. "I think so."

Wally went back to his desk and opened a drawer. He pulled out a folder and gave it to her. "This is my prospectus on what you'll be showing. Look it over real good before next week. In fact," he pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead for a second, "I've got a great idea. Next weekend's the Water Festival. Why don't you look that over—let's see, this is Tuesday, isn't it—and you and Bart and the kids be our guests aboard the Magnificent Marlin next Saturday? I could quiz you about it then. What do you say?"

Sarah took the folder and held it like it was made of gold. "I'd say that's great. This'll be our first Water Festival. I'm sure Bart and the kids will love it. We've heard so much about it."

"Perfect. I'll set it up with Kris and let her do the planning. She loves that sort of thing; she can make lists to her heart's content. How are your kids anyway? Did they make it all right in school this year?"

"They're fine. Julie's getting ready to go off to college. She's all excited about that. Kim's at Bayville Junior High. Dean's at Crestview."

"They like it here?"

Sarah shrugged. "Seem to. Kim's having some trouble adjusting, I guess. She left a boyfriend in Hawaii when we left."

Wally was sympathetic. "I know how that is. Our little Angie's been kind of acting up lately."

"Bart told me what Kris said when you three ate at Gable's the other day."

"Yeah, well—" Wally took off his glasses and rubbed the lenses on the lapel of his coat. "—I guess it's just a stage she's going through. She won't mind her mother half the time. She seems kind of distant, listless, a little restless every now and then. She's got herself a new friend, a little black girl named Clarinne—cute little girl—she's the daughter of Boulder Bevins."

"We know Boulder. Dean calls him our 'Ace Garbage Man.'"

"They don't live very far from us, you know. Just the other end of Turner Road. She and Clarinne spend a lot of time together, not that I have anything against that, you understand. But she plays in the woods all day long and doesn't want to come home at all. Plus she's got a whole room full of new dolls, really ugly things that she brings home with her. She told me Clarinne makes them. They're tree roots is what they are, painted up to look like people, only they're really grotesque. I looked them up in the encyclopedia one evening after she had gone to bed. One of those roots was ginseng. Creepy looking thing. But she won't part with them, not willingly anyway."

"That is odd. Kim's been acting much the same way. She's really too old for dolls but she's been quiet, moody, especially after running into that burglar. And Emma dying—that didn't help any of us. Just the other day, at breakfast, I asked her what was the matter. You know what she said: 'I feel like I don't belong here anymore.' Imagine saying a thing like that. I'm glad Bart had already left for work. I think it's all those crazy books she's been reading lately—things like Studies in the Occult. And The Encyclopedia of Forbidden Knowledge. I found that in her closet the other day."

Wally nodded. "Kids read anything today. Either that or they see it on TV."

"And she's so self-conscious anyway, Wally. She's at that stage where her appearance worries her. Right now, she's got some kind of teen-aged skin rash and it's just driving her crazy. She won't eat, she won't talk, she just mopes around the house all day. Or goes off walking. Where she goes, I don't know. She stays gone a long time. The doctor can't find anything wrong with her."

"I know what you mean. Maybe getting together next Saturday will do us all some good. We can get drunk, get a little wild, tell offensive jokes. Then the kids will really wonder about us."

Sarah clutched her folder and came over to give Wally a peck on the cheek. "I'm looking forward to it already. Have Kris call me sometime this week and we'll plan what to bring. And—thanks, Wally. You don't know what this means to me."

Wally straightened up and brushed some lint from his coat. "Six months from now, when I yell at you for blowing a sale, you won't be able to stand the sight of me."

Sarah was at the door. "Someone as loveable and cute as you? Never in a million years. See you later." She left the office, gently pulling the door shut behind her.

Wally buttoned hic coat and adjusted his cuff links. It was true, he had to admit. The lady's got a point.

2.

Vernon Tatum stood by the window of his office and looked down on the early evening rush hour stragglers winding their way home through the streets of Bayville. It was just after seven, still light outside, and from the top floor of the County Annex Building across the street from City Hall, he could see all the way east to Burnham Park and the Public Market and all the way south to the waterfront. He would have given the last beer of the last sixpack on earth to be down there heading home with them tonight, the day's work done, and a wife and some kids and a hot meal waiting for him when he got home. But the law never sleeps. He snorted, wondering why his mind had chosen to dredge that memory up. It was a sure thing that every politician and sheriff who'd ever been elected had his campaign promises come back to haunt him.

Maybe the law didn't sleep but it needed a shave and a cold beer. And, come to think of it, it needed to take a leak too.

Tatum returned to his desk, covered with manila folders in varying states of disassembly, and carefully let a few ashes from his cigar stub fall onto one marked CASES OPEN VOL. 1975. Maybe, if he worked it right, one of the ashes would start a fire and the whole mess would burn up right before his eyes. He'd simply brush the matter off into the wastebasket, where all such annoyances belonged. Very neat and simple.

No such luck. The ashes lay cold and still.

Tatum sat down in his chair; it creaked to remind him that he wasn't getting any thinner these days. He had been successful all afternoon in avoiding the case file in front of him. The phone had rung. There had been meetings with Gerd Townsend, the District Attorney. Paperwork to do. He had even managed to do a little patrolling right after lunch, which he always enjoyed. Each time he returned to the office, hoping the folder would be gone. But it sat there like something malignant, patiently waiting. Reminding him. Sometime after Sallie, the part-time typist had left, he had slid the rubber band off and removed the paper clips. Now, an hour later, after prowling the corridors of the fifth floor in search of company—even Willie Haynes, the night janitor was late tonight—he had just about succumbed. Already, his fingers were playing with the edges of the folder.

He didn't want to believe it was happening again.

Oh, fuck it. He shook the folder open, spilling half the papers across his desk. There.

He really didn't have to examine the Caleb Merris file. The description that Kim Millen had given him of the burglar who had broken into their house the other night was sufficient. There could no longer be any doubt about it. The old bugaboo was back. Tatum's Bogeyman. The Beast Who Stalks. The great white whale.

Daddy X.

Tatum pulled out a sheaf of papers stapled together and scanned the heading. Next to the case sheet and bio were a stack of newspaper clippings fastened together. They were wrinkled and dingy yellow but still legible. He read the top one:

DEVELOPER DROWNS IN RIVER

It was the Bayville Post, dated March 5, 1975. He didn't read any further.

In the early and mid-70s, Caleb Merris had been Bay County's flashiest and most successful developer. He had been responsible for a lot of big projects,, some profitable, some not, but the one which Merris Properties, which now went under the name of Voss Associates, was best remembered for was the ill-fated Tongue Creek Plantation, just on the Bayville side of Hilton Head Island. It was Tongue Creek that ultimately killed Merris.

The project had been jinxed from the start. Financing had been a bitch and Caleb had taken in several independent investors to help him make the payments, Wally Voss among them. There were months of bad weather throughout the winter of 1974-75, rain and high winds and cold spells the likes of which Bayville hadn't see in decades. There were construction delays, thefts of materials and similar plagues. And then, there were the accidents, and the publicity surrounding them.

From the beginning, Tongue Creek had a reputation among the unions as a 'witchy' site; a lot of men simply refused to work there. It wasn't until later that Tatum found out why. And the Bayville Post didn't make matters any better, whipping up hysterical rumors about hexes and omens and curses and then feeding like a vulture on the panic that ensued.

Right after construction started ,a carpenter named Andre Geddis fell from the roof of one unit, dying almost immediately as he struck some steel scaffolding. A few weeks later—this was already 1975, mid-winter—an exterior wall collapsed onto two men during their lunch break: Pete Willys and Artie Bean. Bean was crushed, Willys paralyzed for life. And then in February, a young 18-year old apprentice brick mason named Melvin Kinard was buried under tons of mud and dirt when an idling road grader got loose.

From then on, the stories took on a life of their own. And nothing Caleb Merris said or did could slow it down.

For months, Caleb had tried to ignore the mutterings among the men that the white witch doctor Daddy X was behind all the accidents. He didn't believe in such things, being a hardheaded, practical businessman. But it didn't matter, his men did. Finally, there came a time when all but a few of the black workers refused to set foot on the construction site at all. Scrambling to find enough workers to finish on time, Caleb managed to complete the project, albeit hastily and rather shabbily, but by then, the adverse publicity of the accidents and the popular belief that the whole Tongue Creek area was bad, haunted, cursed and dangerous, had made it virtually impossible to see, rent, or even give away the units. Caleb, Wally Voss and the other investors were frustrated and angry. There were threats of lawsuits. There were other threats too.

It all came to a halt one soggy night in March, when Caleb Merris was killed. His car broke through the guardrail of the old Casey bridge over the Combahee River near Dooley and plunged into the river. Caleb drowned at the bottom of that black, turbid water, unable to get out.

That's when the legend began.

Verne Tatum remembered well the frustration of those days. He had never been able to find Caleb's body. His death had been assumed. The very next day, when two boys spied the old Ford sitting on the river bottom and notified the police, Verne had requested State Police divers to go down and haul up the corpse. They found nothing. The windows were up, the door was shut, in fact it was locked. But there was no body and no way to explain what had happened to it.

Verne licked his lips, scanning the case summary. In his final report, he had stated his belief that the body had been thrown clear of the car when it struck the water and had been washed down the river and out to sea. Then, somehow, the river currents had managed to jam the car door shut and lock it, leaving it in the condition found by the police divers.

He didn't like it but there it was. No better rational explanation could be had. His job wasn't made any easier by reports in the Post in the following weeks and months, reports that the body had been sighted after all, that it was still there in the car, behind the wheel still driving, and that it would re-appear from time to time when lighting conditions were good. It was said, so the Post gleefully reported, that when the sky was clear and the winds calm and the moon rode high, you could stand on the side of the old Casey bridge and see Caleb's head behind the wheel, still "driving" along as if nothing had happened.

Vernon Tatum had never seen such a thing. But the story grew and, in time, the facts of the case were scattered and forgotten and into the vacuum rushed speculation and supposition. And sometimes just plain superstition.

During his investigation into Caleb's death, Verne heard more and more about the practice of root medicine. At the old man's funeral, Caleb's long-time maid Emma had muttered darkly about how Caleb had trespassed on land claimed by Daddy X, about how she had warned him that Tongue Creek was his land and the word was that the white witch doctor would fight his encroachment with root if necessary to preserve himself. At first, Verne had given no credence to these ignorant rumors. It did set him to thinking though. Thinking about just who this Daddy X might really be. He didn't buy Emma's explanation of things at all. That was the stuff of bad horror movies. What he did know was this: whoever or whatever this Daddy X character might be, he wasn't magical or monstrous or invisible or an "Alligator Man" or anything like that. He was as human as the next guy and he could be beaten. He was also ruthless and cunning and patient and deadly. Verne had the personal experience to prove that. And now, years later, he had murdered old Emma. There had to be a connection.

He closed the case file and leaned back in his chair. It creaked again but he ignored it. He shut his eyes, listening for a moment to the sounds of the car traffic outside.

The kind of personal experience you didn't dwell on very long.

Vernon Tatum had first been elected Sheriff of Bay County in 1970. He smiled, recollecting the taste of that victory over Byron T. Presser. Woody Shivers, the bartender at Cal's Corner, hadn't seen a celebration like that since VJ Day. Verne and his campaign staff, which consisted mostly of Leon Burris and his nephew Louis, had staggered all over the streets of Bayville that night, finally winding up horsing around in the marble fountain at Burnham Park, half naked, at day break. Lawrence Odum, who liked to walk to work over at the Bay Coast National Bank every morning, happened by and lewdly suggested that Verne arrest himself for indecent exposure.

Yes sir, he remembered that night with special pleasure. It was to be the last pleasant memory he would have for quite a while.

As Sheriff, one of Verne's first tasks was to investigate and put a stop to some of the strange goings-on surrounding the much-discussed (among the black community) return of the legendary white root doctor Daddy X after an absence of nearly thirty years. Throughout the election campaign and on into 1971, a series of assaults, thefts and pure intimidation tactics had made the headlines of the Post and had succeeded in scaring away some of the county's black voters. At first, Verne had blamed this on his opponent, Byron Presser, but it was Dr. Spider himself, the crusty old black root doctor, in a questioning session at his crude shack deep back in the woods, who told Verne that Daddy X was real and not to be messed with. Verne was unimpressed, even though he had grown up in the area hearing tales of root power and gruesome rituals. Dr. Spider was a fixture in the community and a powerful voice who had respect. Verne had no quarrel with him. But he resolved to get to the bottom of the Daddy X mystery and his resolve was strengthened in July 1971 when little Curlie Banks (Cazzie's older brother) murdered his mother Liza on their front porch by ramming an ice pick in her ear. When he was picked up for questioning by Verne's deputy at the time, Lewell Gibbs, the kid was in some kind of trance state, glassy-eyed and nearly immobile. And several days later, over at the Reedy Point Home for Boys where they had taken Curlie, they found him dead one morning inside of a coat closet, strangled hanging from a coat rack. His left eye was missing.

Verne wondered how an 8-year old had learned to hang himself so expertly. It was Gibbs who had noticed how much like a common Navy knot the loop in the light bulb cord was. And what about his left eye? From the evidence, it seemed the boy had plucked it out himself—there was blood and fibrous matter and dried crumbs of aqueous humor under his fingernails.

At first, Verne wasn't sure how to go about baiting Daddy X out into the open. But one obvious characteristic of all the incidents was that they involved children, black usually but not always, and 12 to 14 years old or younger. When his own daughter Nina came to visit him that summer, showing off her new husband and her 6-year old boy Bobby, Verne decided to use his own grandson for bait. It was risky but he could see no other way to crack the case and get the Post off his back.

He arranged a picnic on the banks of the Combahee River, near the old Casey bridge, within a few miles of some of the incidents. There had been abductions, stabbings, robberies; some people muttered nervously that the ghost of the pirate Stede Bonnet was behind it all. With him were his wife Ginny, Nina, her new husband Richard and little Bobby. After they had been there awhile, Verne finagled things so that he and Bobby could take a short nature walk in the woods. Unknown to all of them, he planned to leave the child alone in the woods, near a clearing Dr. Spider had shown him, a clearing with a triple-trunked live oak that looked like a hand coming up out of the dirt. He wanted to see what would happen.

They found the clearing and Bobby was left to play in the sand with a toy shovel. Verne wandered off for ten minutes and when he came back, apparently nothing had happened. They went home from the picnic, Verne both relieved and disappointed, but that night, Bobby cried out in pain, turned a bright scarlet color and died the next morning. Lab analysis showed he had ingested a bizarre combination of toxins, deadly stuff that was absorbed through the skin. It had been thoroughly mixed in with the sand in the clearing. Just walking across the clearing was risky. Verne burned his own shoes when he learned that. But there was no other evidence.

Of course, Nina was hysterical at her son's death and Verne felt just awful, but he couldn't admit to anyone that he had intentionally left Bobby alone in the clearing. The big question was why? Why would Daddy X kill innocent children? It wasn't until after the autopsy a few days later, when someone entered the funeral home at night and neatly severed the child's head from its body, that it began to make sense. According to Dr. Spider, the skull of a child killed in a certain way has magical powers. Verne wanted to blame Dr. Spider for the whole thing but he knew Spider too well and there was little hard evidence. It had to be Daddy X.

Being responsible for this grandson's death and learning virtually nothing in the process made Verne sick. Fortunately, most of the incidents stopped after this and Verne had to admit that the white root doctor had won this round. But Verne was sure he would be back. It was Dr. Spider's opinion that all the child-killings and terrorizings were Daddy X's version of a business card. "He's acquiring his supplies," Dr. Spider told him. Verne swore an oath that he'd put Daddy X out of business permanently. Meanwhile, he had a distraught daughter and a dead grandson to brood about.

Verne settled into a routine of sorts as Sheriff despite the occasional rumblings of discontent from the Post about unsolved crimes and "juvenile" vandalism. The worst part was that Nina refused to speak or see her father ever again and that made Verne feel even worse. He was depressed throughout 1971 and 1972 and even considered quitting the office or not seeking re-election in 1974. At one point, around New Year's Eve in 1972, he had almost made up his mind to leave.

But he couldn't. He just couldn't.

It was here that the obsession began, the obsession with destroying Daddy X once and for all. The white witch doctor had become over the years as much a symbol of what was wrong with the world as Moby Dick had ever been for Ahab. Ultimately, Verne came to "feel" Daddy X as if he were his own violent, malignant alter ego. He knew this obsession was eating him alive, probably as Daddy X intended, but it didn't matter. This obsession manifested itself in Verne in lots of small but significant ways; there would be times in later years when Verne would doubt the reality of the white root doctor. Indeed, it became a common phrase about the County to acknowledge Verne's presence by saying, "There goes Daddy's Bogeyman."

It was this obsession as much as anything else that prompted Verne to run again for Sheriff in November 1974. One of the more lasting effects of this period of siege was a nervous tic, a fluttery blinking, in Verne's left eye, the result he liked to explain, of all those hours and hours of squinting through the foliage and trees in the woods of Bay County, looking for the god doctor or evidence of his existence. But Daddy remained as elusive as ever and so, for Nina's sake and his own sense of revenge and justice, he knew he would have to continue his pursuit of Daddy X.

Verne won re-election handily in 1974. A few months later, he was beset with yet another incident ostensibly involving the white root doctor: the death of Caleb Merris,

Tatum yawned and got up to stretch. He checked his watch and realized it was going on 9 P.M. Where the hell is Willie tonight? He glared down at the folders on his desk.

Now I've come full circle, haven't I? The law never sleeps my ass.

As far as the Merris investigation was concerned, Caleb had been drunk at the wheel and skidded off the bridge on his own. That's what his report showed. The main flaw of this explanation was that it couldn't be proved. There was no body. Police divers had searched up and down the river for days after the accident, finding no trace of the body. Verne had intended to raise the car out of the river but he was so vehemently opposed in this by Dr. Spider, who claimed it would only antagonize Daddy X to no good end; "Every root doctor needs a monument to his power," that he gave up the project and eventually closed the book on the case.

Until now.

Of course, another round of woods-searching failed to turn up anything. Verne was more than just frustrated—it was more like embarrassment, or maybe just plain old despair. He began to wonder if the stories of how Daddy X could live for days underwater—half the kids in town called him the "Alligator Man," might be true.

But wait a minute. That was the hang of it.

Verne stopped his pacing and went back to his desk. He rummaged around for his yellow legal pad, his doodling pad that he used for whenever his brain was open for business and he felt an idea coming on. He sat down.

There was a pattern of sorts after all. Why hadn't he noticed it before?

It occurred to Verne that Daddy X became more active every time a bunch of new people moved to town. He looked at his evidence. In 1971, Caleb Merris and his pals were building condos like crazy and, before he got started with Tongue Creek, selling them just as fast. Then came the accidents at the construction site. In 1975, Wally and Kris Voss were new in town and making waves. Then, Caleb Merris drives his car off the old Casey bridge. And now, in 1981, a Navy hero, Bart Millen and his family, arrives and look what happens. A dead maid and a spooked child. The terror was starting all over again. The only question was who or what might be next? Who was the target of all this intimidation? Why?

Verne shifted uneasily in his chair, realizing what he might be facing. Daddy X was alive and well and stalking the people of Bay County again, his county, and there seemed little he could do about it.

I'll be goddamned if I'm going to sit still while that buzzard runs loose. Maybe he could bait another trap.

Something clanked against the outer door to his office. Verne jumped, startled, then got up and went over to investigate. He opened the door.

It was only the night janitor.

"Willis. Am I glad to see you."

Willis Haynes was a white-haired, bristly old fellow who had spent a lifetime mopping the floors of City Hall and the new Annex Building. He knew every trash can like a personal friend and once had told Verne that the old stone and tabby building had its very own voice whispering in the walls, if only you just listened. He often talked of the stories it told.

"Been waxing the floor down to the new addition, Mister Verne," Willis said. He wheeled his mop and water pail into the office. "That's why I was late."

Verne was grateful for any company; he'd been alone with his thoughts long enough. "Don't matter. Come on in and sit awhile. You tired?"

"Some tired."

"Here, let me see if I got any of that Jack Daniels left. I'll tell you one thing, Willis my man, I ain't never seen a face so welcome in my life."

Willis dragged himself a typing stool over to the Sheriff's desk and eased himself down. He rolled up his sleeves and took the Dixie cup Tatum offered, sipping slowly. "Hard day for the law, was it?"

Verne poured himself some whiskey. "You wouldn't believe." He sat down and took a deep swallow. "Let me tell you about it."

3.

It was night and the moon was out and the stars were bright but it was still hot as canteen water on a long march to Pfc. Jimmy Lattimore and he lay on the dirt floor of the abandoned shack he had stumbled across and listened to the sound of his breathing, mixed in with the insistent buzz of mosquitoes.

I do believe I'm going to melt into the ground right here and now.

He was hot and tired, and thirsty and hungry. He had been running practically since his feet had hit the asphalt jumping out the back of that truck on the highway. He'd taken his boots off and let his feet soak in the river water outside—thank God he had found this place. It was dank and full of lice and roaches and fish bones and smelled like a gas station restroom but it was shelter and now he didn't have to worry about sleeping out of doors. Mom didn't like him doing that at all; if he wasn't dry and covered up properly, he just knew she'd come bursting in the door any minute, quacking at him to stop running around half naked or "your father's gonna take his belt to you." Dad had lots of belts. With big buckles.

Lattimore scowled and sat up, scratching his back with the toe of his boot. He itched all over. What the hell is this place? It looked and smelled like an old fishing shack. There was a river outside, just out the back door. The rear half of the shack stood on slick, black pilings, right out over the edge of the water. It was a fairly wide river, sluggish, turbid and full of rotting tree limbs and stumps, jutting up at all angles. Could be the Combahee, he thought. I was running in that direction.

His stomach grumbled and he stood up to stretch. His feet were still sore. It had to be near to midnight; where was he going to get something to eat at this time of day? There wasn't a Dairy Queen within five miles so far as he could see. With a pole and some line, he might could have fished himself some dinner out of the river. But he hated fish and he didn't much like the look of that water anyway. If he only had a nice fat chili dog....

The shack was bare, being little more than dirt and walls of pine timber anyway. One room, the rusty steel frame of a bed, sans mattress, a door leading to the woods, another one to the small landing over the river. Not even a window. Lattimore squatted down to look up the crumbling chimney in the corner. He saw bird shit and soot and nothing else. If he wanted to eat, he'd have to go hunting. Jungle Survival 101, that's what it was. He could hear Corporal Steen's raspy voice already, grating out orders. Jesus Fucking Christ, that man sounds like an old fan blade out of whack.

That wasn't all he heard.

He stopped and stood still for a moment. There was a noise outside, coming from the river. Something knocking, brushing against the pilings. Something rattling. A boat, maybe?

He padded over to the door and stepped cautiously onto the landing. It wasn't much wider than a good-sized shelf and it looked like it could fall at any moment. The boards groaned under his weight, but held.

The air was perfectly still, the only sounds for the moment were mosquitos and crickets and the rushing water, gurgling around the pilings. Then it came again. A banging sort of sound, deep and distant, clattering right below his feet. It was coming from under the water. As if to confirm that, the wharf began shaking under his feet. He grabbed a hold of the door jamb to keep from slipping off.

He had been so concerned with the sound of the timbers rattling that he hadn't noticed the lights at first. But there they were—two clearly distinguishable spots of light, orange-red disks about the size of pennies from where he stood, maneuvering just below the surface of the water, in and among the pilings.

The banging came again, this time a lot louder. Then a scraping. There was something caught under the wharf.

Jimmy Lattimore shuddered and dared a closer look. He crouched down and moved out to the very edge of the landing on his hands and knees. Peering over the end of the deck, he could see a dim shadow weaving in and out among the pilings. He squinted but there just wasn't enough light. Whatever it was, it was massive, longer than a canoe.

Just then, the whole landing shuddered and the deck buckled slightly, nearly sending him head first into the river. He scrambled backwards to the safety of the door, and saw the twin lights moving slowly away from the landing, out into the deeper part of the river. He couldn't get over the impression that it was motorized, like a tiny submarine; it moved in a steady, almost effortless motion. And it was heading upriver, against a strong current.

Lattimore hustled out the front door of the shack and stumbled into the dense bush along the river banks, scrambling to keep up. He wanted to see where this thing went.

Following the lights from the river banks was not the easiest thing he had ever done. The foliage was thick and tangled—huge mats of moss and ropy kudzu vine and tree roots poking up through the mud. Every so often, he would find a relatively clear stretch of bank and race ahead to watch the lights approach—there was often a cypress knee on which to stand, a big, knobby root bulging out of the water right along the bank. He would squat quietly on the knee, partially hidden by the trunk of the tree and peer through the branches at the oncoming lights. He didn't know if whoever—or whatever—it was had seen him but he decided to take no chances. The cypress bark was slippery so he clung tightly to keep from falling in.

He had no trouble spotting the lights again, when he occasionally lost it taking a detour around some impenetrable undergrowth. Sometimes, the bank was too steep or muddy for him to get a good footing. He had to scurry through the woods when that happened, fighting his way through heavy leafage and dangling branches. But even through the brush, he could almost always see the faint amber glow of light, like a little oval pool, pushing its way upriver.

He followed it around a wide looping bend in the river and then, dead ahead, he saw the shadowy outline of a bridge, a dark, blocky silhouette in the moonlight. If he hurried, he might be able to make it to the bridge before the-thing, whatever it was—got there. From above, standing on the railing, he ought to be able to get a good look at it.

It was an old bridge, sturdy wooden pylons marching all the way across from one bank to the other. The bridge deck was laid over with asphalt, but it was spotty and he could see patches of gravel and wooden planking underneath the bare spots. It was only a single lane across—there was a fading red STOP sign about to keel over stuck in the dirt at the entrance. Lattimore clambered up onto the side railing and squeezed his way along until he was hanging from a cross brace right over the middle of the river. He was glad he had left his boots back at the shack.

Much to his surprise, the twin pools of light appeared to be slowing down. The moon was low in the sky, partially hidden by the trees, and the low angle made a bright sheen on the surface of the river. It was into that patch of pale white light that the other lights eventually slowed and stopped altogether. Lattimore cursed. He couldn't see a thing.

He looked over his shoulder. He could, if he was careful, get up a little higher, up on that truss work beam above him. It might give him a better angle to see by; at least, the gleam of the moon wouldn't be so bright. He was powerfully curious about what was going on. It was worth a try.

Taking it slowly, lest he fall backward, he scaled a stout timber like he'd been taught by Corporal Steen and, after a lot of silent straining and sliding back, he managed to make it to the top of the beam. It was a structural piece, bowed at the ends from years of taking the weight of this section of the bridge. As he had hoped, he had a much better view.

He studied the dim puddle of light around the twin eyes—that's what they were beginning to look like. At first, he could make no sense of what he was seeing. There was something huge, squat and square, underneath the water, not the 'thing" itself but something else, even larger. He tried standing up, balancing himself precariously, swaying a little—and then he knew what it was. The shape became clear.

It was an old car.

Whether it was a trick of the light, or a random swirl of sediment on the river bottom, or just his own overheated imagination, Jimmy Lattimore thought for a brief moment that he had seen something else too. Real or not, the image would stay with him for years afterward.

There was a face in that car, a rubbery, waterlogged, whiskery old face, right there behind the wheel, eyes bulging and mouth open in a silent scream. It vanished in a second, smeared out by a boiling cloud of black silt. But it was enough to have seen it.

He lost his balance after that. He knew it right away—he could feel the smooth wet surface of the beam sliding out from under his feet. Flailing at the air, digging his toes into the wood, he teetered for an instant before finally slipping off. He plunged headfirst into the river.

He had closed his eyes in the fall, much like he used to when he and Mark and Ronnie went diving from the old head-shaped rock into the little lake by the Scout camp. Hold your nose and close your eyes and under the water, you'll get a surprise. At least it was warm. He could feel the silt speckling him the moment he slipped under.

It was deeper than he thought. He drifted down for what seemed like ages before his toes splatted into the muck at the bottom. Then he opened his eyes...open your eyes and hold out your hands and you shall see—

He gulped and nearly swallowed the whole river right there.

\--it sure as hell ain't the Gingerbread Man.

The "thing" he had been following was no machine. Or was it? It looked alive, looming right in front of him no more than ten feet away, fat and scaly and black as night. Faintly reptilian. Glistening armored hide. Teeth to make a dentist cry. And the lights, the crimson glowing eyes. Glaring out of the murk like the devil himself.

Lattimore opened his mouth to scream and nearly choked to death. The "thing" had seen him, heard him splashing around, he had probably fallen into the river right on top of it. Now it was coming, turning its big serpent's body around, getting those teeth ready for dinner. It had a spiked tail that faded away into the dark, whipping at the water as it maneuvered to strike.

In the dull glare of those eye-lights, Jimmy Lattimore caught a glimpse of the old car he had seen from the bridge. There was in fact a body inside—he saw it from the side, shifting about in the current like a life-size mannequin. It was sitting in the front seat, right behind the wheel and the corpse's hands fluttered out and bumped against the steering wheel as he as watched. He didn't know who it was—some old geezer with no eyes in his sockets. Fish must have got 'em. He didn't plan to stay around and find out.

He clawed at the water, fighting his way back up to the surface. He could feel the "thing" coming after him, he could hear a steady beat drumming in the water. His lungs ached and his eyes burned with silt but he floundered blindly upward anyway, groping for air, for the bridge pylon, the river bank, anything. Something slick brushed his foot and he cringed and kicked out at it, struggling even harder. He thought he would burst before he made it. Watery tree branches and a pale moon wavered overhead. He gave one last lunge and just when he was sure he was dead and wasn't going to make it, he broke the surface and bobbed and splashed about wildly, heaving in huge gulps of air.

Without even thinking, he stroked over to the bank and dragged himself slipping and sliding up the muddy slope and into the woods. He staggered and fell to his knees, still breathing raggedly, looking behind, wondering.

The twin lights hovered just below the surface, no more than five feet offshore. A black hump of dripping hide thrashed in the shallows. It was coming, out of the river, up the bank and after him. He was sure of it. He couldn't rest even a second.

Jimmy Lattimore sucked in some air and lurched to his feet. He was caked with mud and river sediment, but he didn't stop. Stumbling and swaying, still half out of breath, he fled into the woods in terror, digging dirt and scum out of his eyes as he went.

He didn't care where he was headed.
Chapter 5

1.

Wally Voss came early to the marina on Saturday morning, arriving just after sun-up, to give the Magnificent Marlin a thorough going-over before the big day. He had left instructions with Looby Pitts, of Hedrick's Marine Supply Company, to be there by six a.m. He wanted Looby to have a good look at that small leak in the forward cabin. Maybe they could get in a little caulking before the Millens arrived.

It was still dark along the quay when Wally leaped from the pier to his boat. The Marlin rocked slightly as he hopped down to the deck and Looby stuck his head out of the cabin door.

"That you, Mister Wally?"

"In the flesh. You get that caulking done yet?"

Looby shook his head sadly and adjusted his glasses. He was a studious, angular man, middle-aged, with a thick drooping moustache and trim beard. He hauled himself out of the cabin and stood on the deck.

"No, sir. I ent done that yet. Sure is glad you came when you did."

Wally was halfway up the ladder to the cockpit. He stopped, puzzled by Looby's voice. "Something wrong?"

"Yes, sir, terrible wrong, if you ask me."

Wally came back down again. "What is it?"

Looby mopped his forehead with a greasy rag. "I chased off a prowler this mornin', jus' when I got here."

Wally frowned. "A prowler? You sure?"

Looby nodded. "Coming down the pier, I seed this body inside the cabin. Seed his shadow under that lamp right there." He indicated a lamp on the dock. "I yelled at him, run up to the boat here, but he got away. Done dived right into the water, right between those boats."

Wally was thoughtful. "Did he take anything? There isn't much onboard, except for some charts and things."

"Not so's I could find. I didn't see who it was either." He shivered in spite of the heat. "Make me an old man, just to think of it."

"Maybe we'd better have a look around and see if anything's missing." He started for the cabin door but Looby grabbed his arm.

"I wouldn't be goin' down there just yet, Mister Wally."

Wally looked at him. "Why not?"

Looby kicked at some imaginary dirt on the deck. "They's markings down there. It ain't safe."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I jus' wouldn't go down there."

Wally Voss studied his face, wondering if he were joking. He soon realized he wasn't. "I think I'd better go have a look for myself." He opened the cabin door and went down the stairs. Reluctantly, Looby followed.

It was a tiny cabin that could sleep four with fair comfort. There was a small mirror on the lavatory door. Wally saw the reflection of bright lurid scribbling on the back of the cabin door. He touched the crimson markings gingerly with the tip of his finger, sniffing the residue.

"Is this it?"

Looby nodded solemnly.

"The ink seems dry." He didn't know what the symbols meant. There was a patch of crosshatched lines. A crescent moon. A little squiggly line underneath these two. And out to one side, a sharp tooth, dripping blood. "Let's wash it off before it damages the wood."

"I wouldn't do that," Looby said.

"Why not, for heaven's sake? I don't want graffiti marking up my boat."

Looby shook his head. "It's a bad root what done this, Mister Wally, sure as I'm standing here. Somebody done gone and hexed this boat."

Wally snorted, searching through a drawer for a cloth. He finally found one and wet it good under the faucet. "That's ridiculous, Looby. You're talking mumbo-jumbo now. I thought you were too old for that sort of thing." He set to scrubbing the markings off.

Looby sucked on his lips and refused to help. "I knows what I know, that's all. That root he can be good and he can be bad. Just mostly depends on who done it."

For a moment, Wally just glared at him, as if he weren't sure what to make of such words. Then, he sputtered out laughing. "You've got to be kidding, old boy."

Looby clucked and shook his head, almost sadly. "No, sir, Mister Wally. I be telling the truth."

Wally finally swallowed his laughter, when he realized that Looby was serious. "Maybe so, maybe so. But I don't buy it. Here, rinse that off." He waited a few seconds for Looby to dip the rag in the sink. 'Really, Looby, and you a grown man, talking like that." He finished scrubbing the markings off, then washed his hands vigorously in the sink. He left the rag to soak in the water. "What kind of man would believe something like that?" He inspected his cleaning job and then went back up to the deck.

Looby hurried after him. "Cautious man, Mister Wally," he muttered. "A real cautious man."

2.

Saturday was the day of the mid-summer Water Festival in Bayville and Wally Voss was hungry. Lunch was still two hours away but he knew he couldn't wait that long. He had been sitting in a deck chair in the back of his cruiser, Magnificent Marlin, chatting with Sarah and Bart Millen, when his stomach growled and requested some attention.

Wally grinned sheepishly and patted his belly. "Getting a little low on fuel, it looks like. Anybody want a quick sandwich?"

Bart Millen shook his head and drained a beer. "I'll take another can though."

"How about you, Sarah? Salami on rye, bologna, peanut butter and banana, hardboiled eggs? Anybody?"

Sarah shook her head. "I couldn't, really. I'm stuffed as it is."

Wally went below to make himself a sandwich. Kris, sitting by the ladder that went up to the pilot deck, said, "You should see the refrigerator at home. He never has less than three sandwiches ready to go, just in case the munchies attack."

Wally poked his head out of the cabin door. "I heard that snide remark. AQ good salesman is always ready, for anything."

"Except the truth about his diet," Kris said.

He returned with a paper plate full of edibles and sat on a deck chair next to the railing, balancing the plate on his knees. Kris helped herself to a few potato chips.

Wally took a bite and spoke with his mouth full. "Anybody for a game of cards?"

Sarah was watching the yacht parade down the Bayford River, shielding her eyes from the sun. "When do the parachute jumps start?"

Bart consulted his printed schedule. "Says here at 11:00. 'U.S. Navy Chuting Stars will demonstrate precision parachute landings in the park.' I'm glad you've got the Marlin moored here, Wally. We ought to have a good view."

Wally wiped his mouth with his hand. "Privileges of rank. I had to wait on the list for three years for this slip. By the way, where are all the kids?"

Sarah pointed to a covered pavilion on the other side of the marina. "There they are. Listening to that band." A local rock group was twanging away on a makeshift wooden stage next to the pavilion. "They're going to miss the parachutes. And the boat races."

"Here comes Kim and Angie," Kris said. The two girls had taken a stroll down to the end of the river walk and back. They waved as Kris motioned to them.

Wally rearranged the big picnic hamper to serve as a card table. "A little blackjack, for starters, if that's okay with everyone else." Bart and Sarah and Kris pulled their chairs up closer. "We'll let Sarah deal. She looks honest."

"Thanks a lot, boss." Sarah took the deck and cut it, then began passing out cards.

The Marlin rocked as Kim and Angie stepped aboard. They were both dressed in T-shirts and cutoff jeans.

"You two not interested in that rock group?" Kris asked. She was studying the hand Sarah had dealt her, frowning a bit.

"We wanted to see that old boat down there, with the big sails," said Angie.

"And be by ourselves for a while. "It's crowded out here," Kim added.

Sarah fiddled with her daughter's hair for a moment, straightening out a kink in one of her bangs. "You're both anti-social, you know that. You ought to go up there with the other kids and mix awhile. Go get washed up. We're eating as soon as we can get your brother and sister's attention." Kim pushed her mother's hand away and slipped down the stairs to the cabin below, following Angie.

"Your turn, honey," Bart said. He peered at her over the tops of his cards.

The game went on for a time, amicably, Wally winning most of the rounds. They were interrupted from time to time by a loudspeaker, announcing the next event on the Festival agenda. It was hot and humid, well into the 90s, and all of them nursed cold drinks, as they watched the parade of yachts down the channel. Wally drooled at the sight of a big white cruiser, plying down the river majestically. "That's got to be Lawrence Odum's," he told them. "The big show-off. Looby Pitts told me that beauty cost a cool eight hundred thousand." He shook his head, then went back to his cards.

The morning was filled with activities for everyone. The Water Festival was a Bayville tradition; practically the whole town was out for the day, lining the quays and piers of the marina, or picnicking in boats and ketches up and down the waterfront. There had been a parade downtown earlier that morning and after the last float had passed City Hall, the Mayor Byron T. Presser had adjourned the celebrations to the riverfront. An airshow followed almost immediately, with parachuting exhibitions and flyovers by Marine jets based nearby. Later in the day, there would be boat raves and the traditional blessing of the shrimper fleet.

They all watched as the last of the chutists drifted down under a brilliant red and white canopy, trailing colored smoke, and plunked down right on top of a big red X in the center of a grassy commons.

Wally drained his beer and left the can on top of the card table-picnic hamper, uncrushed. "Not a bad show for a grubby little town, is it?"

Sarah was a bit put off by that. "We like Bayville. I think it's a nice place, especially to raise kids. Don't you?"

"If you like mosquitos and swamps."

"Of all the places we've been posted," said Bart, "Bayville seems the friendliest, even more so that Charleston."

"Where all have you been?" Kris asked.

Bart rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, there was Charleston, as I said. And then there was Norfolk, Virginia—Fleet Headquarters. That was a bitch. And Washington—"

"Ugh," said Sarah. She made a face.

"—and Groton, Connecticut. And Hawaii. That was nice."

"Did you always serve on submarines?"

Bart nodded. "Ever since I enlisted. Three boats in all. Let's see, the Medlock—she was a diesel-electric boat, attack class. And the Kingfish, good old Kingfish. She was nuclear attack." His face darkened for a moment and he took a sip of his beer. "And of course, the Tulsa."

Everyone was quiet for a while. The mood had changed. Finally, Kris cleared her throat. "Sorry I brought it up. This is supposed to be a fun day."

Bart waved her off. :It's okay. Sometimes," he took a deep breath, "sometimes, I do need to talk about it. Other times—" he shrugged.

Wally was sympathetic. "It must have been terrible. Do you think about it a lot?"

"Not so much anymore. Actually, the worst part wasn't the accident itself, you know. The explosion and the waiting around to be rescued and the boat sliding off that underwater canyon and me just barely getting my fanny out in time." He half chuckled, ruefully shaking his head. "The hardest part was afterward, all the interviews, the appearances the Navy had me make. Being the 'hero,' that was tough to take." He swallowed audibly. "Especially when so many men...." He stopped and pursed his lips, studying the cards in his hands. A joker grinned up at him. "I guess I do think about it every now and then."

Wally stood up abruptly and fished his wallet out of a back pocket. "Not to change the subject or anything but I thought Sarah might like to see the first house she's going to try and sell for me."

Sarah looked up brightly. She had been patting her husband's knee. "Sure. Let me see it."

Wally unfolded a grainy old newspaper photo. "It's not far from Hilton Head. Actually, the lady that lives there—Shelley Raines—uses it for a house and an art gallery. She does sculpture or something." He handed the picture to Sarah.

"Cute little place. Almost a cottage."

Wally sat down and resumed his beer. "She thinks she wants forty thousand for it. I had to enlighten her about the current market a bit."

"Do we have anybody interested yet?"

Wally smiled at her. "That's your task, madam. Bright and early, Monday morning."

Sarah saluted. "Aye, aye, Captain."

They went back to their cards.

In the cabin below the rear deck of the Marlin, Angie Voss and Kim Millen swat next to each other, on a bench next to a porthole at the front of the boat. From there, they could both see their parents in back, chatting pleasantly about those boring things parents always talked about, drinking, laughing, telling dirty jokes that made Sarah Millen blush, cackling with delight over a hand of cards. It was important that they keep an eye on their parents. What they were doing was a secret and it any adults found out, it would spoil everything. That's what the Alligator Man had told them.

Outside, the girls could hear the whine of the speedboats—there was a slalom competition going on. Men shouted curses from the boat next to them; someone had placed a bet on one of the speedboats. The girls paid them no attention at all.

Kim made Angie run up to the stairs and see if the coast was clear. She peeked silently out of the hatch, then ducked back inside and nodded mischievously.

"They're still playing with the cards. It's okay now. Show me what you got." She hopped up on the bench and snuggled up next to Kim. "I want to see."

"Just hold your horses," Kim told her. She stuck her hand in the front pocket of her cutoff jeans and withdrew a small white packet made of burlap. It had been slit open along the seam of its red and blue thread. Kim shook the packet; a few grains of yellow powder and some dried leaves and the Little Captain spilled out. "That's it. I found it a few days ago."

Angie stared in wonder. Experimentally, she touched the powder, but Kim jerked the packet away.

"Don't do that."

"Why not? I want to see it."

"'Cause it has magical powers, stupid. We have to find a way to sew it up before all the powder spills out."

"Then what do we do?"

Kim turned the Little Captain end for end, sucking on her lip. "I have to put it under Daddy's pillow."

"Why?"

"Because he said so. That's how it's done."

Angie sighed. "What's he like?"

Kim put the figurine down on the bench between them, tucking it in the fold of the cushion so that only its head was grinning up at them. "I don't know. Different, I guess. He makes you feel like you belong. Danny Kamiko was the last person who made me feel that way."

"Your boyfriend in Hawaii?"

"Mm-hmm."

Angie folded her arms and scuffed at the table leg with her flip-flops. "That must have been neat. My best friend is Clarinne Bevins. But Momma doesn't like her so much. I heard her tell Daddy that Clarinne shouldn't give me all those dolls 'cause they're bad for me."

"I know. That's the way they all are. Hey, you want to make some new friends?"

Angie perked up. "Sure."

"Why don't you come with me and Kevin tomorrow? Down to the end of Delta Road, where it's all swampy and marshy. There's a lot of neat friends down there."

Angie shivered a little. "ooh, I don't know...I'm scared of that area."

"There's nothing to be afraid of, once you believe. Once you trust him."

"Who? The Alligator Man?"

Kim slid off the bench to go rummage through the icebox. "You'll see." She pulled open the door and pushed some plastic cartons aside. "Wanna Coke?"

Angie didn't answer. They both heard someone coming down the stairs to the cabin. Quickly, Kim shut the door and raced over to the table, where she had left the packet. She scooped it up and stuffed it in her pocket just in time.

Standing there in the doorway, staring at them, was Bart Millen.

"Your mothers told me to tell you to wash up and come to lunch. Right away."

Kim looked over at Angie. "We're coming, in a minute."

Bart shook his head at their guilty faces. He smiled and went back upstairs.

"He almost saw us," Angie said at last.

"I know," Kim told her. "Come on." They washed their hands in the sink and climbed up on deck.

"There you two are," said Sarah. A small card table was already set up, loaded with sandwiches in wax paper, plates of chips and pickles and stuffed deviled eggs. She patted the bench next to her. "Come sit by me and I'll hand you the goodies." Angie pranced up and plopped down in front of bag of cold chicken. Kim followed her. As she squeezed in behind the table, she saw Angie start to giggle. Kim frowned and glared at her until she was quiet.

Lunch lasted about an hour. The sun was high and beating down hard on the water, bright and steaming hot, when Bart slurped down the last of his beer and pushed himself away from the table.

Wally peered into the food hamper. "Anybody for dessert?"

He was met with a chorus of loud groans. "The Marlin may sink if we eat anymore," Bart told him.

"I think I'll just lay out in the sun and rot," said Sarah. She started cleaning paper plates and wrappings off the table.

Julie Millen, who had spent the entire morning up at the pavilion listening to a rock band called Brothers of Doom, spoke up. "There's a skiing competition this afternoon. Anybody but me interested?"

Kris was cleaning her sunglasses, and stomping trash further down in a plastic sack. "I am. I haven't been skiing all summer."

"You didn't bring your skis, remember?" Wally reminded her.

"Oh, you can rent them. It's just down the river," Julie told them. "Right in front of the drive-in. There'll be lots of spectators."

"She wants to show off that new swimsuit of hers," Bart said. "Practice her moves before she goes off to college."

"Daddy—" she pinched him playfully.

Wally shrugged. "It's okay by me. What time does it start?"

Julie looked around until she found a schedule. She scanned it for a moment. "It says to be lined up and ready to go by two o'clock. You register at the dock by Smokey's Bar."

"Have we got any other takers besides us brave girls?" Kris asked.

Sarah shook her head. "I'll spectate today."

"We'll judge your form," Bart said.

"Yeah," said Wally, "on the Richter scale."

"Can we do it?"

Wally shrugged. "I don't see why not. It wouldn't hurt Marlin to get a little exercise." He picked up the trash bag Kris had been filling and twisted it shut. "First, we clean up, though."

"I'm going below to change right now," Julie said. "Here, let me take the rest of the plates with me." She let Kris load her up with unused paper cups and utensils. Bart opened the cabin door for her.

"Watch that first step," Bart told her. He watched as his daughter made her way carefully down the stairs. Then he shut the door.

Wally had already climbed up to the cockpit. Bart called up to him.

"I'll get the lines." He jumped to the pier and began untying the mooring lines from their cleats.

"Watch out below. I'm cranking her up."

Bart and Dean made sure all the lines were clear and secured. Wally started he engines and Marlin rumbled to life. When they were warmed up, he donned his tattered blue sailor's cap and pointed out to the river. "Yonder lies the ocean!" he yelled out. "Stand ready, me hearty crew!"

Kris couldn't help laughing. "Don't fall off the perch, Admiral of the Ocean Sea!"

Wally made a face at her.

They motored down the Bayford River until they had come abreast of Smokey's Bar and its freshly painted wooden dock. They got in line and, after a half hour's wait, signed up for the skiing contest to be held in the widest part of the river, adjacent to the Misty Woods Drive-In. Kris and Julie Millen changed into their swimsuits and Wally paid the rental fee for two pairs of skis. Bart helped Julie into hers, while Wally maneuvered the Marlin out into the channel to take up their position. They would have to wait awhile, for the river to be cleared of traffic.

The Bayford River was shallow along the banks in front of the drive-in and many spectators had taken advantage of that to wade out into the water and do a little swimming. The gravel parking lot of the drive-in was full of cars and trucks and campers; it was a good place from which to watch the yacht parade too and many had camped there overnight. But the smarter ones knew it was cooler beside the river. The summer sun had made the parking lot almost unbearable so the banks and the shallows of the river were crowded with throngs of screaming children, happily splashing all the way out to the bobbing orange buoys of the safety line.

After nearly an hour's wait, and some spectacular spills on the slalom course, it was finally Kris and Julie's turn. Bart made them both check their footholds and helped them into the water from the side of the boat. They paddled out a short distance and Bart reminded Julie to fasten her life vest. Giggling and tugging on their lines to unkink them, they got themselves into position.

Wally called out to them. "You guys ready back there?"

They both waved back and got the tips of their skis up out of the water, bracing themselves.

"I'm so excited," Kris murmured. "I haven't done this in ages."

"Let 'er rip," Bart said.

Wally cranked the engine and they got underway slowly, building up speed carefully.

Bart and Sarah settled back to enjoy the ride. Dean waved at the women and Julie grinned and waved back. Kris stood quietly by the cockpit ladder.

The first part of the slalom course they were to run described a huge figure 8 around two red marker buoys in the center of the river. Wally had started the first run around the course from a point opposite the dock at Smokey's Bar. He nudged the throttles forward a bit and the powerful Mercury inboards answered with a muted rumble. The Marlin surged ahead.

Bart watched the girls weave back and forth across the Marlin's wake, their hair streaming out behind them. They sped past a loudly cheering gang of campers parked on the edge of the drive-in lot—most of them were young men, shirtless, wearing baseball caps and waving beer cans at them—probably college guys, Bart thought to himself. He smiled at Julie's reaction; she gave them a shy wave back as they sped by. Three months from now, she'll probably be dating some of those guys. He shook his head ruefully and looked over at Sarah. She was thinking the same thing.

Wally began a long looping turn to the left. As the Marlin skidded through the turn—Bart thought Wally ought to cut back his speed a little more—Kris and Julie bobbed and jumped over the curl of the wake, twisting their hips in the air and adding whatever little flourishes they could think of to impress the judges in front of Smokey's Bar. Wally bit into the turn a little harder and the girls swung way out behind the boat until all of the slack in the line was taken up.

They began the second, return part of the run.

Crossing over the return part of the course, tracing the second half of the 8, Bart suddenly realized that the Marlin seemed to be still accelerating. Puzzled, he glanced up at the cockpit.

He could see right away that Wally was having some kind of trouble with the throttles; he was jerking on them with one hand and trying to keep the Marlin on course with the other. Behind them, unaware of the difficulty, Kris and Julie dodged and cut across each other's path gracefully, shouting and laughing back and forth. Bart sensed something wrong; it was a sense that had served him well in years of submarine duty. He had learned to pay attention to it.

He stood up, holding himself steady on the railing as the Marlin rocked in the remnant of its own backwash. Stumbling, he lunged over to the cockpit ladder and yelled up at Wally.

"Everything okay?" His voice was thinned by the engine noise and the wind.

Wally was standing up now, fighting the steering wheel. He heard Bart and turned halfway around, shaking his head. Bart could see the sheen of sweat on his face.

"No!" came the reply. The Marlin lurched and Wally nearly fell backward down the ladder. "It's the throttle...and this...damn wheel....!"

Instantly, Bart scooted up the ladder. When he got to the top, he staggered for a moment, trying to keep his balance. The boat was rocking wildly now, pitching in the growing crests of waves. They were nearing the shore, nearing the shallows behind the safety netting, where all the swimmers were. Wally couldn't bring the Marlin about.

Bart lurched and swayed and finally made it, half falling, to Wally's side. He pushed Wally away from the throttles and leaned against them. They were stuck, stuck right in the top détente, maximum power. He was afraid the throttle handle itself might snap off.

"You get the wheel!" he yelled. Wally nodded. His face was ashen, all the blood had drained out. He fumbled first right, then left, then angrily back and forth, but the steering wheel would only turn so far and no more.

The Marlin bore down on the crowd of swimmers.

From somewhere below them, Bart heard a distant voice. It was Sarah.

"Bart?" The voice faded in and out. He couldn't pay attention to it. "Bart—what's the matter--?"

Thank God the girls had seen what was happening. As he turned around for the last time, he had a brief glimpse of Kris and Julie dropping further astern. They had let go of their lines and were now plowing through the water, waist high, a hundred yards back. But he had no time to worry about them.

They had only seconds before it would be too late. Already, there was panic behind the safety net. Children were screaming, flailing in the water, trying to get out of the way. Parents were dragging their children out of the water by their legs, through the weeds and up the steep bank. Other swimmers were scattering in all directions. The Marlin was heading right for the center of the little beach.

"Cut off the engines!" Bart yelled. He pointed frantically to the ignition switch. Wally understood and yanked the keys out. Almost immediately, the engines died, the grumble sputtering and coughing as the stuck throttle continued pumping fuel. Their speed slackened considerably. But it wasn't enough.

Bart and Wally were both hauling on the steering wheel with the full weight of their bodies as the Marlin sliced through the safety net. Their speed had dropped off steadily but it was still high enough to slam them into the gravelly shoals underneath the river, lifting the tail end of the boat and its spinning propeller completely out of the water for a moment. The Marlin lurched hard and swung around broadsides to the shore, sending them both sprawling to the deck of the cockpit. She keeled over almost to her railing before righting and plowing into a sand bank jutting out from the shore.

It was then that they heard the screams. The last thing Bart saw, before his head struck the deck, were the bodies, the arms and mangled legs and crushed heads floating freely in the shallows.

The river bloomed a bright crimson red with blood.
Chapter 6

1.

Sheriff Vernon Tatum stood with his hands on his hips at the top of the grassy bank in front of the drive-in and surveyed the carnage. He felt is wife Ginny's arms fasten more tightly to his waist and he put his own hand down to hold them there for a moment. He stole a peek out of the corner of his eye at the woman. It was the first time he had seen her face wet with tears since their little daughter Louise had choked to death on a chocolate bar in 1955.

He patted her arm and slowly extricated himself from her grasp. No one could cry enough tears for this mess. He gave an understanding squeeze on her elbow, then scrambled, half-sliding down the bank to the beach.

The sand was covered with bodies, and parts of bodies. Verne counted four dead and over a dozen injured, most of them seriously. The dead were mostly children—one of them had been neatly decapitated, another sliced in half at the crotch. He ordered every man he could find in the area, numb with shock or not, to take off his shirt and bring it down to the beach. Smokey's had provided a pile of towels and light blankets.

Thank the Lord we got the poor dead ones covered up.

The beach sand was dark with dried blood and gasoline and splintered fragments of the Marlin's keel that had drifted on shore. Behind him, all along the banks of the Bayford River, Verne could hear sobbing. And the sound of someone losing his lunch too. His own stomach fluttered in sympathy.

He kneeled beside a wiry young man whose head was wrapped with a blood-soaked T-shirt. A paramedic from Bay County Clinic squatted next to him, wrapping a small splint around the man's broken fingers.

"He gonna be okay?" Verne winced at the glaze of shock in the man's eyes.

The paramedic grunted. "For the moment. We need to get 'em all up to the Clinic. The Marines are sending us a chopper; damn traffic's got the other ambulance tied up."

Verne patted the man on the shoulder gently and stood up. The truth was there wasn't much he could do at the moment. The town hadn't had a disaster like this in years. He swallowed a rising stream of vomit and took a deep breath.

It could have been a lot worse, he thought.

He looked around for a moment. It was a miracle that the big cruiser hadn't simply disintegrated when it plowed into those sand shoals. As it was, only the stern half of the boat was still floating. The water was slick with oil and broken spars and chunks of glass and decking and a few other things that he didn't care to think about. He'd had a squad of deputies out there wading through the muck for the past hour. The mound of trash bags on the beach was a testament to their diligence. He knew what was in those bags. It made him shudder. Someone was going to have to try and match them all up.

There was a small knot of people sitting just above the waterline. Several doctors and paramedics were attending the group. Verne recognized Wally Voss in the middle, sitting up shakily. His face was bleeding in a dozen places.

Verne went over.

"Anybody hurt bad here?" He crouched next to one of the medics. The man was swabbing at a wicked scratch on Kim Millen's cheek.

One of the doctors, Macklin was the name Verne seemed to recall, spoke up. "No broken bones, which is a mystery to me, Verne. Mostly cuts, bruises, lacerations, that sort of thing. They were all incredibly lucky."

"Were all of you on that boat?"

Verne got a chorus of nods and murmurs.

"What the hell happened out there, Wally?"

Wally Voss flinched in pain as one of the medics daubed disinfectant on a cut. "I'll be damned if I know, Sheriff. One minute we're out there doing the course, the next minute, the throttle's tuck wide open and the steering wheel's jammed. I couldn't control her."

Bart Millen was lying a few yards away, his head propped up on a small pile of rags and shirts. He seemed to have come through with fewer injuries. "At least, we got the engine cut. That lessened the impact."

"Both of them were thrown clear of the cockpit," Dr. Macklin said. "That's probably what saved them."

"Wally, you feel like taking a trip out to your boat and showing me?" Verne asked.

"He needs to stay quiet for a while," Macklin said.

"I don't mind." Wally got up awkwardly and swayed in the arms of the medic for a moment. "Just give me a second."

"I'll come too," said Bart. He saw the look of concern on Sarah's face. "I'll be all right."

Verne walked down to the waterline . "Rudy!" he yelled to his chief deputy. "Rudy! Bring that raft back in for a minute." Rudy Neely, a gangling, red-haired, moon-faced kid who had been with the force for almost eight years, saluted and started rowing back to shore.

Verne and his deputy helped Bart and Wally into the raft. Neely paddled them slowly out to the upended wreckage of the Marlin's bow and cockpit. The splintered arm of a deck chair drifted by them.

Carefully, the men clambered aboard, picking their way gingerly over twisted strakes and jagged boards. The cockpit windscreen dangled by a few bolts from the end of a warped panel. The floor canted down into the water; the men had to cling to what was left of the railing to keep from falling in.

Verne straddled a gaping hole in the decking to get a better look at the throttle console. "How long since you had this thing serviced?"

Wally thought a minute. "Well, Looby Pitts looked her over good this morning, just like he always does for members of the marina. I don't know. She was probably given her last good overhaul last year, sometime."

Verne wiggled the plate covering the throttle linkage up and down, working the screws loose enough to pry the cover off. He handed it to Neely and shone a flashlight down into the tangled, oil-clogged works.

"See anything?" Wally asked.

Verne clucked and hummed for a few minutes, scratching his hair, rubbing his lips thoughtfully. "Maybe," he said at last. He poked at a bent tube with his pocket knife, worked his thumb and forefinger around the end of a tiny nut and washer and grunted tugging on the thing. "It looks like—" he prized the throttle lever sideways, "—sort of, that this thing—" at last the bent tube popped free, "was stuck down in between that lever and that little axle." He held the tube up to the sunlight, studying it. "It let you push the throttle forward but blocked the lever when you pulled it back. No wonder the throttle stuck wide open." He dropped the little tube—it was no more than half an inch wide, an inch long—into Wally's hands. "Pretty sloppy maintenance, if you ask me. It would almost have to be put there deliberately."

"Maybe it worked itself out of some hole," Rudy Neely suggested.

"Or was sheared off when we crashed," Bart said. "It's possible that isn't even what caused the throttle to jam."

"Maybe," said Verne. "You said the steering wheel stuck too?"

Wally nodded. "Try it yourself."

Verne turned the wheel first one way, then the other. It would only move half a circle each way. "I don't like it."

"What do you mean?" Wally asked.

Verne screwed up his face into a squint, the way he often did when something puzzled him. "It's unlikely that both the throttle and the steering wheel would jam at the same time, accidentally."

"You think someone did it on purpose?"

Verne shrugged. "You've made a lot of enemies since you moved here, Wally. You know that."

"I know my debts, Sheriff. And my creditors. I don't think any of them would do a thing like this." He suddenly remembered the crazy scribblings on the cabin door. And what Looby Pitts had said about them. He wondered if they were worth mentioning—probably someone had done it as a joke—and finally decided not to.

"How about you, Mr. Millen?"

Bart looked puzzled. "Enemies? I don't see how. We've only been here about eight months."

Verne recalled his theory about newcomers to Bay County. "That makes no difference. You're known well enough to pique the interest of a lot of maniacs."

Bart had to admit he was right. For months after the Tulsa had gone down, he had received threats and warnings, on the phone and in the mail. But that had been fifteen years ago. "It doesn't make any sense. I think we're seeing things that don't exist."

Tatum grunted and motioned for Neely to get the raft ready. "That piece of metal tubing exists. And I wouldn't be surprised if we found something like it inside the steering box as well. You can't ignore facts."

"What are you going to do?" Wally asked.

They climbed back aboard the raft. Neely paddled them back to the shore.

"Ain't much I can do for now," Tatum told them. How do you fight a myth? "I'll have to impound your boat, though, for further inspection. What's left of it."

Wally shook his head slowly. On the beach, ambulance attendants were taking a body swathed in blankets and sheets up the bank to a waiting truck. The crowd parted to let them through.

"It was just an accident, Verne. That's all it could be. I suppose the Post will have a field day with this."

Tatum nodded. "I want you two to keep what we've said quiet for the time being. They're just theories anyway."

"Agreed," Bart said. He jumped out of the raft and helped Neely push them ashore, wedging them onto the sand. Sarah came up to him and threw her arms around his waist. She had been crying, tears streaking her bandaged face. "Oh, Bart," she murmured. He held her close for a moment, rocking her silently. Thank God they hadn't been badly hurt. He put his arms around her shoulders and turned her back toward the children, still being cared for by Dr. Macklin. He didn't want her seeing any more bodies being removed.

Behind them, a platoon of Marines were combing the beach, searching for anything left.

Dean was standing now, a little wobbly, brushing sand and mud from his legs and arms. A livid scrape on his cheeks and neck was freshly bandaged.

"Can we go home now, Dad? I ache all over."

Bart squeezed his shoulder. He stooped down, to watch Dr. Macklin peer into Kim's eyes.

"Anything wrong?" he asked.

Macklin shrugged. "She was staring so, I thought she was going into shock. But I think she'll be all right now. I was wondering about her eyes though."

Sarah stooped down beside them and brushed back Kim's brown hair from her forehead. "What's the matter with her eyes?"

"Don't know now," Macklin muttered. "I thought she might have damaged her eyelid here for a moment. When she first blinked for me, I could have sworn that...."

"What, Doctor?"

Macklin shrugged again and stood up. "Nothing. I'm sure it was nothing. A reflection maybe. We're all pretty tired and shook. She'll be fine." He smiled down at Kim, who, folded her arms self-consciously to hide the rash on her hands and wrists. "Bet I can even find something to help that rash."

Bart shook his hand. "Thanks for everything. I guess you've got others to look after."

Macklin surveyed the beach. Most of the injured had been treated and removed. A little blond girl was crying in her mother's arms a short distance away while medics applied something to her face. The Marines were still at work but the crowd on the banks was beginning to disperse. Macklin sighed and rubbed his eyes wearily. "I'll be at the Clinic all night." He picked up a small kit he always kept in his car and said good-bye. "Jesus, what a day," he muttered.

He heard an argument and looked around. There, down by the waterline where they had beached the raft, was Sheriff Tatum and his deputies. Two other people were there. One was a woman, heavy-set and piggish, with wheat blond curls and too much make-up. Ginny Tatum , the Sheriff's sometime wife. The other person was the Mayor. Byron T. Presser was furious, the veins on his neck standing out like they would soon burst. He could hear them bellowing at each other.

Presser shook a thick finger in the Sheriff's face. "I'll be goddamned if you're going to sweep this one under the rug, Tatum. You've done nothing but jack off ever since you got elected. I want something done and I mean right away. You're a spineless ingrate if I ever saw one—both our careers depend on your investigation, you hear me?"

Tatum blinked. He wished Ginny would say something. But she stood there next to him, staring at Presser like an adoring cow. "I hear you."

"I hope you hear me, Tatum. You're not botching this one like you did that Caleb Merris thing. Not with an election coming up next year. You fuck up and we'll both be collecting unemployment, you hear me?"

Tatum look forlornly over in Bart Millen's direction. He seemed to shrug silently, as if to say "Help me."

"I hear you all right."
Chapter 7

1.

The phone was ringing in the Millen household when Bart unlocked the front door and let them in. Sarah went into the kitchen to answer it.

Bart directed the kids to wash themselves up before coming to the table. "I think it'll do us all some good to have a cold drink and a nice nap. And no fighting in the bathroom either." He popped Kim on the behind as she followed her brother and sister down the hall. She glared up at him as she went by.

"It's for you,: Sarah called from the kitchen. Bart went in and sat at the table.

"Hello?"

"Bart—it's Hofer. Wes Hofer, up in Washington."

Bart's face broke into a grin. "Hofer? Happy Hands Hofer?"

The voice at the other end chuckled. "Christ, it's been ages since anyone called me that. I thought I'd ditched that reputation."

"All those card games you beat me at—no way. The Kingfish casino, that was you. What are you doing up in Washington? I thought you were posted to Charleston."

"I am but the Gold Crew's got the Zebulon Pike out on patrol and I'm on vacation up here for a week."

"You still chasing that College of Charleston co-ed—what was her name?"

"Her name happens to be Debbi Ely and she's sitting on my lap right now, I'll have you know."

"Oh, so you're seeing all the sights up there."

Hofer laughed. "In a manner of speaking. Listen, I thought I'd clue you in on some scuttlebutt I heard going around the Navy up here. It's not official but it is reliable. An unimpeachable source, as they say."

Bart took the beer Sarah had opened for him and carried the phone back into the kitchen. He leaned against the side of the refrigerator, while Sarah sat at the table. The kids filtered in, first Julie, then Dean.

"Don't tell me: they've run out of sub skippers and need a replacement. Just anybody off the street would do."

Hofer's voice was suddenly serious. And lower. "Not quite, my boy, not quite. Really, this is important and I wanted you to know ahead of time. I hope you're sitting down."

"I'm not but go ahead."

Hofer cleared his throat. "Bart, they're re-opening the Tulsa investigation."

Bart's eyes widened. He stood straight up. "You are kidding. Aren't you?"

There was a pause. "I'm afraid not, old boy. The word came down yesterday, so my source says. You'll get your notice to appear in about three weeks. The old Board of Inquiry thing again."

"Different people, I hope."

"That I don't know. But I wanted to give you what warning I could."

Bart was thoughtful. "Did your source say why the Navy is re-opening the investigation?"

"Not in so many words but I gather there's some new evidence. And if your next question is who's pushing this, the answer is I don't know that either. It may be one of the survivors. Or their families."

"Well, it's cruel to say it, but there aren't many of those."

"No. You're right."

Neither said anything for a moment. Finally Hofer broke the silence. "How's that woman I almost married?"

"Sarah's doing fine, Wes." He decided not to tell him about the boating accident.

"What would you have ever done without that party I threw way back then? Just overflowing with females."

Bart smiled. "Probably married the Kingfish. Us Engineering Officers were like that I those days. As I recall, Sarah was the only girl at that party."

"Yeah," Hofer said, "and you made off with the goods. Permanently."

Bart started to say something, then thought better of it. He hadn't seen Wes Hofer in years. "Wes, I hope that group isn't behind this."

"You mean the Tulsa Widows? Me too but I don't think they are. My source buttoned up when I pressed him about it. I got the impression that the impetus for dragging out the whole mess again came from on high."

"That's probably even worse. Nothing's more entertaining than a hero brought down. Not that I ever wanted it or deserved it anyway. Maybe they need some more scapegoats."

Hofer was sympathetic. "You'd have thought they would have been satisfied with Nathan Caden's skin. Especially, since he wasn't around to defend himself at the time."

Bart hadn't thought about his old Executive Officer in a long time. He had gone down with the Tulsa. The two men had feuded for years. "Thank goodness he's not around to bitch anymore. That sounds heartless, but—"

"Hey, listen, I understand. We don't need to have a confessional over the phone. Look, say hello to Sarah for me and keep your nose clean. I wanted to let you in on what I knew. So you can start...preparing, or whatever. Debbi's getting antsy for my body, so I'd better run."

"Thanks for the warning," Bart told him. "I'm sure Debbi has no idea what she's getting into."

Hofer laughed. "You jealous old curmudgeon. Take care, okay?"

"I will. Come see us sometime."

"Before you know it."

Bart hung up the phone slowly, wondering. He finished his beer. All of a sudden, he didn't want to sit at the table. He didn't want to burden them with this again.

"Who was it?" Sarah was peeling an apple for Dean.

Bart slouched against the wall and crossed his arms. He stared into the den. "Wes Hofer. Calling from Washington."

"I thought that sounded like him. How's he doing?"

"He's doing fine. He had some new for me."

"What was it?"

Bart wandered into the breakfast nook and sat down, carefully lacing the fingers of his hands together on top of the table. "The Navy's re-opening the Tulsa investigation."

Sarah's face clouded. "Oh, no. Why?"

"I don't know exactly. New evidence, I guess."

Sarah put her half-peeled apple down. "You'd think they could leave it alone, after all these years."

Bart stood up just as suddenly as he sat down.

"Where are you going?"

He took a deep breath. "I need to think awhile. Maybe Guy Dunn's in. We haven't worked out with the weights in a long time." He started for the back door.

"Don't stay too long, honey. And don't work yourself to death. You heard what Dr. Macklin said. We all need to rest for a few days. I don't want to have to cart you off to the hospital tomorrow. We can't afford that, you know."

"I know. I'll take it easy." He frowned. "Where's Kim? Isn't she coming to the table?"

Julie spoke up. "She's taking a bath, Daddy. She said it would make her feel better."

Bart nodded and opened the door. "I see. Sounds like a good idea—I may join her. She sure does take a lot of baths lately."

Sarah sliced the apple in two and gave half to Dean. "Well, she's worried so about that skin rash. You know how she is. It'll go away in a few days."

"I guess I ought to go have a talk with her. Tell her she's still loved even if she does have unsightly blemishes."

"It wouldn't hurt. And you don't have to be sarcastic about it. She's sensitive enough as it is."

Bart put up his hands. "Sorry. I won't be long." He ducked out the door.

Kim stayed in the bathtub for almost an hour. She wasn't hungry and she wasn't sleepy. She didn't need to rest. She just needed to be alone. When she was by herself, she didn't feel all those eyes glaring at her; sometimes, they felt just like bee stings. She'd always been alone, as far back as she could remember, and she liked it that way. Julie and Dean could get all the laughs and smiles and hugs from Momma and Daddy they wanted—she had her books and the wooden dolls Clarinne Bevins had made for her. And something better.

She had him.

Kim scrubbed again at the tough, calloused patch of skin on her arms. If anything, the rash was spreading; it was beginning to it and burn and nothing seemed to help. Just in the last few days, she had found patches of gray-black callouses on her thighs and back. The skin on her arms was as rough as a saddle.

She decided she had been in the bathtub long enough and pulled the plug. The water swirled down the drain as she stood up and toweled herself dry. She could see herself in the mirror over the sink from where she stood. Something was happening to her eyes too. She got out and went over to have a closer look.

That doctor had noticed the same thing. She examined her eyelids and was surprised to find that she seemed to be growing an extra layer, a thin, fragile film that slid down over her eye whenever she blinked a certain way. The sight of it gave her a chill. More disturbing still was the shade of rosy pink in her pupils—she hadn't noticed that before either.

Must be the sunlight from the window, she told herself. She finished drying.

Momma had sat her down a few months ago and tried to explain the kind of changes her body would soon be going through. She had talked about things like bleeding in certain places, about cramps that would come and go, about the way her hips and breasts would swell. "It's difficult to get used to at first," she had said, "but women have been doing it for ages and you'll come through fine, believe me." She wondered if these were the changes Momma had been talking about.

It must be the first stage, she decided. She wasn't pleased at all with the way her face seemed to be changing. The more she looked in the mirror, the more certain she became that somehow he nose was flattening out; it wasn't the same cute little tweak that Daddy had loved to pinch for so many years. Now it was ugly, a broad, tough slope of skin that looked in profile more like a little mountain than a nose; though it wasn't so obvious if you just glanced at it. Her cheekbones seemed to be sinking back into her head too—already, when the light was right, there were shadows where there should have been rosy mounds of flesh—and a ridge of bony issue seemed to stand out from her forehead.

Even her tailbone hurt today. She could feel a small but hard knot of something back there, barely protruding above the skin. She didn't dare look.

It was all very disturbing, these changes, and Kim decided not to look in the mirror anymore. She wriggled into her shorts and T-shirt, finally concluding that the accident out on the river had raised a few more bumps than she had first realized. A few days' recovery and she would be back to normal again.

Except for that spreading rash. She shivered, tentatively touching the horny callouses again. She was glad she had given that packet of seeds and powders to Angie Voss. It wasn't doing a thing for her complexion.

Kim debated whether to go find something cold to drink in the kitchen or lie down for a nap. She spent a few minutes brushing out her dark brown curls—at least those hadn't changed—and finally decided to do neither. She would sneak out of the house and take a walk along Delta Road. It was near sundown anyway from the looks of the sky outside; that meant the Alligator Man might show up down at the creek at the end of Delta Road. She might even see if Kevin Dunn wanted to come along.

Crossing the hall to her bedroom, Kim realized that the house was still and quiet. Daddy had made everybody lie down and take a nap. Which was just as well; it would be easier for her to slip out without being seen. And she wouldn't be missed as soon.

She stood on the side of her bed and unlatched the window and screen. Then she moved the vanity chair underneath the window and hauled herself up and over the sill. She crouched on the ledge for a moment, then slipped off and plopped down into the flower bed outside. She always had to do a little kick-spin in the air when she jumped, to avoid landing right on top of a holly bush. She had always been careful to leave no trace of how she got in and out. Besides, she knew Momma would kill her if she damaged that bush.

She carefully put the screen back up, then set off into the woods.

There was a narrow, but well-worn path through the pine trees that skirted the edges of the marshy ground behind their house. Kim had cut that path over the months, sing it as a short cut around the creek that separated their property from the Dunns. The path took her along a zigzag course through heavy brush and sheets of vines and moss, but it was safer than walking up the street where she might be seen. And Kevin's bedroom was in the back of his house anyway.

She walked for a few minutes, enjoying the smell of pine needles matting the forest floor and the chattering of sparrows and terns all around her. From a low branch nearby, a big black crow cawed at her. The sun was going down and much of the ground was in deep green shadow now; only the upper branches of the trees were lit with spears of light. Through the canopy of foliage overhead, she could see gray thunderstorm clouds gathering. As she reached the fence surrounding the Dunns' property, the breeze freshened noticeably. She smelled rain in the air.

Kim scaled the fence easily and hid behind a beech tree. From here, it was a short rock toss to Kevin's window. Kim looked around until she found a stone of suitable size. She pitched the rock up against the screen, wondering if he was home.

For a few minutes, there was no response. She tossed a few more rocks and was almost ready to give up for fear Colonel Dunn might see her, when she saw the drapes at Kevin's window part. His face materialized in the window.

Kim waved from behind the tree and motioned for him to come out. He nodded silently and shut the drapes. Kim retreated back into the woods to wait. Five minutes later, she heard the sliding doors to the patio open and shut. Kevin came out, dressed in cutoff jeans and a scarlet tank top. He picked up his bike at the foot of the steps and walked it over to the fence.

"The Alligator man's out tonight," Kim told him. She helped him push the bike through a gap in the fence.

"How can you be so sure?"

Kim smirked at him. "'Cause I feel it, that's how. He told me so. He's always there on Saturday nights."

"Smartass," Kevin said. He got on his bike and waited while Kim situated herself on the end of the seat behind him. When she was comfortable, she fastened her arms around his waist. "Think he'll do a magic show for us?"

Kim smiled in anticipation. "I wouldn't be surprised. Come on. Get this buggy moving."

"Just sit still, will you. You're so heavy, I can't control us."

She pinched him in the ribs for that.

They pedaled along the path for a while, over low mounds of leaves and rotten tree limbs, bumping across buried roots and knocking branches and dangling kudzu vines away from their faces. It was getting darker by the minute in the woods but the path had been beaten down good over the years—by other people, Kim suspected, perhaps other children—and, although it was not much wider than the bicycle itself, it was navigable, if a little rough on the rear end.

They came to a tiny, stagnant tributary of the deeper creek that lay ahead and had to get off the bike and portage over a shallow pool underneath a fallen sweet gum tree. Kevin took one wheel, Kim the other, and together, they waded across the murky water. They nearly slipped in the mud on the other side but managed to keep the bike dry and shove it over the top of the rise and onto the forest floor again. The ground was damp and squishy everywhere they stepped.

They rode on for a few minutes more, until through the dense thickets ahead, they could both hear and smell the cool resinous odor of scummy creek water. The ground began to slope down a bit and they both smiled when they spotted the twin rows of buckeye shells full of fuming angel sand lining the little pathway. The shells glowed a deep blood red in the pitch black of the forest floor, lighting their way down to the creek.

Kevin put on the brakes and dragged his heels to keep them from flying out of control. Kim put out her own legs to steady them along and they nearly fell off as the bike jerked over a sinkhole and began its long bumpy ride down to the creek banks.

They skidded into the mud and stopped, their legs covered with wet leaves and tickle burrs. Kevin dropped his bike next to another one propped up against a cypress tree and, together, they walked the rest of the way down to the water.

It was a gloomy green dell through which the nameless creek ran, not so much a creek as a wide, sluggish pool of turbid water, sporting shafts of sawgrass and irregular mats of greenish algae. The banks were shallow and black with mud; only the craggy roots of cypress trees afforded a place to sit. A vault of pine boughs and oak limbs and lacy Spanish moss sheltered them from any view of the darkening sky. The whole setting resembled a shallow bowl, cracked at one end to let the creek flow in and out. Skull-shaped candles hung swaying from the lower branches behind them, casting a crimson red glow out across the water. Kim had learned that the candles were called "Sampsons." The Alligator Man claimed to have once gotten a man off death row by using them.

There were other children along the creeks banks, most of them squatting on top of the roots that poked above the mud flats. Kim recognized a few of them: Coley Lucas was down by the water's edge, stirring at something in the shallows with a crooked stick. There was Sammy Scott, a year younger than she, the hero of the softball field at Bayville Junior High. And Jimmy Matson, to, up there sitting on a limb that arched out over the edge of the creek, staring down in fascination. And, of course, Clarinne Bevins, carrying one of her whispering wooden dolls, picking her way carefully down the slope to get a better look. She looked up and saw Kim and waved. Kim waved back.

In all, there were nearly twenty children, gathered along the muck and ooze of the nameless creek. They all had come down to see the Alligator Man.

And, as Kim looked out to the water beyond the first small path of sawgrass, she saw him. His old wooden rowboat, black and wrinkled with age, was coming in for the magic show, oars creaking and groaning as the little skiff was dragged toward the shore by a phalanx of black glistening alligators.

All the children murmured and stood up, scrambling back from the water's edge as the boat bobbed and rocked. There were oohs and aahs and nervous mutterings as the banks were cleared. And there in the middle of the boat, standing up like a warrior riding his horse into battle, clinging to a fistful of ropes that ran down to the muzzles on the alligators' snouts, was the man himself, proud and smiling and waving to all the children on the banks.

The Alligator Man, the walking 'gator, the King of the Snakes himself. And he looked right up at Kim Millen as the black muzzled gators beached the little boat in the mud.

He was a slender man, even slight, with incredibly long arms and fine black clumpy hair. He had molish eyebrows and a bristly beard, gray-black, and his forearms were extremely hairy and powerful. He wore a black T-shirt today, with a great big gator mouth yawning wide on the front, and ratty blue jeans full of holes and patches. He was barefoot and the cuffs of his jeans were rolled up.

It was part of the show that the Alligator Man never came ashore. He stood there in the front of his boat and did his tricks and magic and if you didn't clap and yell and laugh with everybody else, he might just decide to sick those mean-looking gators on you and you couldn't get back up the bank in time to get away from them. Kim knew they were well-trained—it wasn't unusual at all for dozens more to show during the course of the night's performance, so that the creek and mud banks were often alive with the creatures, slithering over each other, snapping at anything that moved, crunching pine cones and tree limbs and swallowing small rocks to help their gizzards digest food. They never hurt anybody unless the Alligator Man wanted them to. And when they did, it wasn't a pleasant sight to behold. Not a pleasant sight at all. But you had to stay still or he'd sick them on you too.

"Come on, children," said the Alligator Man, beckoning to them. "Come on down and sit by the water. It's time for fun, the sun's going down and let me tell you a story and keep you safe from the hags and the trolls. Don't be afraid." He spread his arms wide and smiled that big smile and there just wasn't anyway Kim could resist. He was sweet and mysterious and romantic and powerful and he could do the most amazing things; she had seen them. She hoped this time, he could change himself completely, the way Clarinne had told her, transform himself into a living, breathing human gator man, right before their eyes. Clarinne had seen him do it lots of times.

Slowly at first, with caution and reluctance, eyeing the black gators hissing and snorting in the water around the boat, all the kids made their way down to the edge of the creek. The Alligator Man wanted them in a tight little group, the better he told them, to protect them if something slimy and strange came bursting out the woods.

"I don't want my children to be devoured by all the wood devils and ogres lurking out there. You want to be safe tonight, don't you?" All the children muttered "Aye," for that's what the Alligator Man liked to hear. "Gather 'round then and make yourselves at home. Tonight, we're a family. Tonight, you're going to be amazed."

He always started with the same trick.

The Alligator Man stepped up to the very end of his boat, nearly losing his balance, and snapped his fingers loudly three times. Instantly, all the alligators in the water looked up. Still smiling broadly—Kim thought he had the most delicious smile and wished Angie Voss hadn't been so scared of coming along—the Alligator Man clapped his hands sharply once, then began to croon a little ditty in a low voice, too low to make out the words at first, though she thought it an old sailor's ballad.

There was a bark, named Noah's Ark,

Who fled from the storms of the Lord,

Two by two, he built up his crew,

Until he could hold no more on board.

Refrain: Stand ready! Stand ready! The day'll come

When the earth is cleaned of her sin,

Stand ready! Standy ready! The day'll come

When we can begin again.

The sea, she's deep, so vast is her keep,

That who'ere slips now shall be lost,

We're fightin' her waves, with none but our slaves,

No matter how high we be tossed.

No land's in sight, no home for the night,

We'll sail on, wrestlin' the wind,

But there'll soon come a day, when at last we can say,

Our port's ahead, we're goin' in.

He crooned and hummed and wiggled a kind of dance in the boat and in no time at all, all the alligators in the water had joined in. They bellowed right along, snouts waving in the air, and the clearing was soon alive with this odd hypnotic music, a lullaby of hoarse croaking and hissing and rumbling, and above it all, the baritone refrain of the Alligator an himself. It was funny and sad and frightening all at once, and after a few moments of silent wonder, the children broke into applause and laughter.

The Alligator Man took a short bow and clapped his hands twice. And as suddenly as it had started, the bellowing stopped. The gators were as still as death, waiting for the next command.

Still acknowledging the applause, he bent over and hoisted up a heavy bag, showing it to everyone along the banks. Out of the bag, he took a tiny bowl and held it up. It fit easily in the palm of his hand and Kim realized with a start that was the top half of a human skull. The Alligator Man fanned the skull through the air and it burst into flames. He let the fire flicker for a moment, then snapped his fingers. Again, the alligators jerked to attention, waving their huge, spade-like heads in the air, bellowing softly, splashing water as they clambered over each other to surround the rowboat. The Alligator Man stooped down and carefully placed the flaming skull on the head of the nearest gator. Then, with two sharp words, the gator swam off, heading out toward the middle of the creek, the firelit skull burning like a red-orange eye as it slowly cruised through the water.

Much to Kim's surprise, the burlap sack was full of skulls, each one in turn whipped into flames by a simple flick of the wrist, then delicately placed on the head of a gator wallowing beside the boat. Before long, the creek was alive with the glow of burning lights, all circling and gliding across the surface of the water. Kim watched with amazement as the Alligator Man commanded them to turn and turn again in unison, a sluggish but strangely enchanting ballet of blazing fires.

The longer she watched the procession, the drowsier she became. It was like watching fish gliding back and forth in an aquarium, soothing and calming and irresistibly mesmerizing, like staring in to the flickering depths of a candle. She lost any sense of time, of her body, of anything outside the riveting waltz of the alligators. She was vaguely aware of movement around her—some of the children making their way down the mud banks to the creeks' edge, to get closer, to see better, to be with the man who was King of the Gators—and in time, her own body responded, seemingly of its own, to the pull of his awesome powers. Just to be close, to be with him and stand in the aura of that power, to be like a gator even for a second and know nothing but the rapture of blind obedience—it was sexual, in a way, and the children hardened and opened to his touch.

Kim joined them at the creek's edge.

For many minutes, nothing was said, nothing was heard, save the rhythmic rush of water over tails. The gators skimmed a woven pattern of light across the water, lacing the shadowed banks of the creek together into a knitwork tapestry of fire. Through it all, the Alligator man stood immobile in the center of his boat, hands folded across his chest, watching. Studying. Looking at his pets. His eyes drifted down from the trees and came to rest on Kim's.

He smiled and Kim felt a shiver in her arms and legs.

She was dimly aware of things. Shapes. Flickering lights. Shadows falling in front of her. The Alligator Man had stepped from his boat and waded through an escort of blazing gators up to the edge of the creek. She couldn't move her head—it was held fast, held in concrete, and even her eyes no longer obeyed. She wanted to blink and turn away but the pull was too strong and she was made to look, made to witness the transformation she had wanted to see, yet dreaded ever since Clarinne had first described it to her. The who was not a man stood tall in the shallow water, and Kim let her eyes go where they had to.

It started at his feet, where the creek waters slurped and slapped around his ankles. The change spread like the shadows of sunset, slowly at first, inexorably. The lights seemed to pale as his white skin steadily darkened, growing blisters and callouses and craggy folds like a terrible pox had overtaken him. She let her eyes drift upward, following the course of that spreading hide.

In minutes, it had enveloped his arms and chest. In the shadowy dusk of twilight, the Sampson candles in the trees gave off little lights and much of the change was obscured, even from only a few feet away. Perhaps, that was deliberate. She looked again and realized that the whole of his skin was plated with dripping dull gray armor, scaly in spots, shifting in reflected light to the play of muscles underneath, a tough, leathery hide that was cold and shuddery just to look at.

She let her eyes fall at last on his head.

Now there was no doubt. His entire head had swelled, front to back, and even as she watched in mute horror and fascination, his mouth split wide, along a once seamless crack, and gaped open to reveal a ring of stony teeth and a hard body palate, which instantly snapped shut with a loud crunch. His eyes had receded to a dark recess under his heavy eyebrows and began to migrate to the other side of his skull. Kim shivered at the cold fathomless glare in those eyes. Deep inside, a faint spark of orange fire flickered.

His hands had become webbed and now sported four claws which snapped and clicked at the swarm of gnats buzzing in front of him. He stood there for a moment, letting the children adjust to what he had become, snorting, breathing a tinny whistling kind of breath, before pacing the full weight of his feet, if they could be called feet, on the mud bank and dragging himself on shore.

There was a collective intake of breath. The children stirred from their torpor. The entire transformation had not taken three minutes.

The Alligator Man trudged up the bank until he stood before Kim, towering over her, sweating and dripping creek water and hissing and smelling of musk and decaying flesh. In his claw, he held a cigar box that he had kept hidden in the front of his boat.

Kim tried to speak, but her throat was dry. He was so powerful, so big, he seemed to fill the sky and all the woods with his presence. A string of drool dangled from the corners of his mouth.

Kim swallowed and managed to croak out a question.

"Are...are you Daddy X?" She couldn't stand up; her legs were numb.

There was a sound like a dog being throttled, a yelp, a muffled scream, something hard and brittle gnashing and then a stream of words came out, spat out like phlegm in a hoarse, grating voice.

"There's no such thing as...Daddy X."

Kim blinked and shook her head dumbly. "There...there isn't?"

The Alligator Man smiled, although what passed for a smile looked more like a grimace. His teeth were dull and scarred. "But you and I are going to be good friends. Aren't we?"

Kim nodded, silently, still looking straight up. Her neck hurt from the angle.

"I have a present for you." He gave her the cigar box. She took it with shaking hands. She fumbled with the top but finally managed to get it open. It was crammed with old newspapers, crumpled and wrapped around something buried deeper in the box. Kim dug a little further and took the whole bundle out, laying it on the grass in front of her. She peeled the papers back and—

Gasped.

It was a hand, dried, still streaked with crumbs of blood, severed at the wrist, an amputated hand. Hairy and flexed in a sort of half grip, covered with moles and wrinkles. There was a faded tattoo on the back of the palm.

The tattoo was a naked lady, doing a teasing bump and grind. Kim swallowed hard. She knew that hand, she knew it all too well and the whole memory came flooding back.

She didn't want to remember. But it came anyway. She buried her face in her hands and cried.

2.

Bart Millen groaned, struggling to press the two-hundred pound weight to the top of its track. His face was soaked with sweat and his arm and shoulder muscles quivered under the strain . He held the bar up for a count of ten, then blew out a breath and eased the weight slowly back down. It clanked as it reached the bottom.

He and Guy Dunn had been giving the Nautilus a good workout for the past hour and both of the men were beat. Guy straddled a horse in the corner and stretched his legs back as far as they would go. He winced as a muscle in his thigh cramped.

"I've about had it for tonight," he grunted. He slid off the horse and stretched some more, reaching for the ceiling of the shed. "How about you?"

Bart had the bar back up again, his arms shaking badly. "A...few more...turns," he blurted out and let the weight slide back with a thud. He drew in a few short breaths. "Then I'll be through."

Guy watched him for a moment, hands on his hips. "It wasn't your fault, you know. You shouldn't blame yourself for Wally Voss' negligence."

Bart gave the weight one last heave, but he couldn't finish it and gave up disgusted with himself. He sat up and reached for a rag to wipe the sweat off his face.

"I know, I know. It's silly. But sometimes, I can't help it. It's just that it reminds me so of the Tulsa...."

"Bullshit," Guy said. He poured them both some Gatorade and they went over to the leather sofa and sat down. Guy had finished his training shed with flea market furniture and Bart and Sarah had helped him restore a lot of it. "You read the papers too much."

Bart lay back against the cool vinyl and let some of the liquid stand in his mouth for a second, before swallowing it.

"Speaking of the paper, did you read the Post? Paper boy brought it a while ago. Ham Dodd wrote the piece on the accident. Front page, three-inch headlines, the works. You'd have thought it was Pearl Harbor."

Guy chugged down his drink and poured himself some more. "I glanced at it."

"I read the whole thing, unfortunately. Sarah was upset about it. You know what that nitwit is writing now."

"God knows."

"He's got this theory. Taking some of the things that have happened around here lately==our maid being murdered, the accident, Kim's snake man, a little gossip here, a little speculation there, he's come up with an explanation for everything. It's ingenious, I'll give him that."

"What is it?" Guy asked.

"Someone with a sick sense of humor is behind all these shenanigans. Someone is deliberately trying to create a general climate of fear, so the town will begin to feed on itself. Dodd said it was someone who wanted to get back at society for some imagined wrong. A revenge freak loose in the woods."

Guy snorted. "Dodd writes fiction, whether he knows it or not. I'd steer clear of him on this book idea."

Bart sipped at his Gatorade and rubbed his neck wearily. "I plan to."

"You know who I think is behind all these incidents? It's that Marine private that went AWOL a few weeks ago. I managed to sneak a peek at his record the other day. There's enough there to explain a mental institute. Petty theft, a bit of sabotage, drug dealing, attitude problems, time in the stockade and the correctional brigade. He's a case study in who the Marines don't want, all by himself."

"I hope you're right," Bart said. He chewed over what Wes Hofer had told him on the phone that afternoon. "Did I tell you the bad news yet?"

"No. What bad news?"

"The Navy's re-opening the Tulsa investigation. A few weeks from now."

Guy looked over at his friend. It might have been the light or the strenuous workout, but he looked older than his forty-five years. "Why are they doing that?"

Bart told him what he knew. Guy listened pensively, saying little, a deep furrow on his brow. He rubbed his chin, nodding occasionally, trying to find something positive to seize on. There wasn't much.

"So that's it," Bart finished. He exhaled slowly. "They're like an old dog with its favorite rag. They just won't let go."

"It sounds bad, Bart." He mulled over a question, decided not to ask, then changed his mind. He wanted to know. "You mind telling me a little more about that day? I've never heard the whole story, from your side, that is. Just what the papers said."

Bart shrugged. "It was bad enough. We were trapped down there for almost twenty hours. That in itself wasn't so bad—we had plenty of supplies and rescue operations were underway. But our screws and propeller shafts were bent—the explosion did that. We didn't have full power. On top of that, we were sitting on the edge of a shelf of unstable mud and rock—we were shifting all the time—and it looked like we'd slide off and go below crush depth at any moment. We found out the hard way that we really were teetering on the edge. Any movement inside the boat could push us over. The waiting, the praying—" his shook his head slowly, "—the never knowing. Every sound of the ledge shifting outside seemed like another nail in the coffin. There was some panic. And the first rescue attempt was botched—all of us thought time had stopped, just frozen solid."

"And then you slid off?"

Bart nodded. "Finally, while we were in the midst of transferring the crew to diving bells. And I wound up inside one—somehow...' he swallowed hard and blinked. "All those men...that crazy, stupid helmsman...."

Guy put a hand on his shoulder. "Later, okay? It's been a rough day for you."

Bart ran a finger under his eyes and looked at the spot of wet on it. "I was three years getting over the taste and the smell and the sounds of that day. You know what fear smells like? Like sweat and cigarette smoke. Men—boys, really—pissing in their pants. Machine oil and water. I can still smell it, right now. I won't ever forget it. All those men—" his lips hardened, "and here I am, a fucking hero."

"Hey, take it easy."

Bart shrugged off Guy's hand and stood up. "It's after me, you know."

"What are you talking about?"

"It is. I can feel it. Stronger than ever now. Look at me, Guy, look at what I am. All the things that have happened: not just the Tulsa, but other things. My first wife dying—God love her; I still think of Miriam sometimes. Sarah and Julie getting raped in Washington; they never found the men, they didn't even look very hard for them. Now the accident today—I'm telling you, Guy, it's not a coincidence."

"That's nonsense and you know it. Come on, be logical about this. You've had a hard day and you're tired. You feel like a drink—I mean something more than Gatorade?"

Bart stood there staring at his hands. "I'd better not. Not tonight. What the hell—I feel better just having said all that." He smiled ruefully. "I don't know that I believe it myself. But it felt good to say it. Thanks for listening."

Guy turned out the lights and opened the door. A breeze swept into the shed and cooled them down. It felt good. "Sure you won't pop a few with me? Denise is working at the store tonight. I could barbecue us some chicken and we could get a little silly and talk dirty and behave like kids again. What do you say?"

They walked across the backyard, to the edge of the little creek. "It's tempting, Guy, but I think I'll beg off tonight. I'm beat."

"Fair enough. But if you wake up in a cold sweat from the munchies, don't say I didn't offer." He poked him in the arm. Good workout tonight. Let's do it again soon."

"You're on." They said good-buy and Bart followed the creek into the front yard, where he hopped to the other side at the narrowest point. He went into the house.

It was just after seven and Sarah was out on the screened porch, waxing down an old chipped settee they had picked up at the Public Market a few weeks ago. She wore a polka dot bandanna that kept flopping down into her face as she crouched to reach hard to get spots. The children were nowhere to be seen but the television was on and Sarah was half-listening to a movie. They often spent hours together restoring old furniture they had picked up. It was relaxing and occasionally profitable. Bart stuck his head through the door.

"Where is everybody?"

Sarah sat back on her legs and stopped for a minute, wiping sweat away from her eyes. "They're all outside somewhere. I couldn't keep them quiet for more than an hour."

"A bomb last couldn't stop that crew. How's it coming?"

Sarah shrugged and stood up, tossing a well-oiled rag on top of the settee. "Slow. I think I'll take five. Oh, by the way, there's a parcel package on the kitchen table addressed to you. It came in the mail right after you left."

Bart went into the breakfast nook and saw the package. It appeared to be a small cardboard box, wrapped in brown paper. He tore the paper off and opened it up.

Inside, he found another small, heavily lacquered wooden doll, in the shape on an old English captain. The thing was five inches in length and seemed to be freshly varnished. The serpent's tail had squeezed a bit tighter this time; now the Little Captain was drenched with stylized blood. A piece of newspaper was glued over its face, a grainy old photo.

Bart held it up to the light. Suddenly, he realized who was in the photo—it was him. A picture old enough to have been taken many years ago. There was no date or caption to the picture but from the frayed edges of the paper and his own pose, he had little trouble placing the time.

It was a picture taken on the docks at Norfolk, right after the Mallard had put into port with the survivors of the Tulsa sinking. He remembered that scene, all too well; it had been an unscheduled new conference, right at the foot of the gangway. The press had nearly crushed them as they were trying to get off the ship, microphones and cameras and notebooks thrust in his face, all the pushing, the swearing, jockeying for position. In the picture, he was trying to tell them what had happened.

"What on earth is that?" Sarah asked. Bart gave her the doll and she studied it for a moment, frowning. "Not another one. Why can't they just leave us alone?" She sniffed at the paint. "That looks like an old picture of you."

"It is. Somebody's idea of a joke. That picture was taken right after I got back from Brazil."

Sarah shook her head and looked at the doll a little closer. The doll's body was wrapped in the tail of a dark blue serpent; its fangs were licking his face. Gouts of blood gushed from the Little Captain's mouth. She shuddered. "I don't like it. It's not a very funny prank."

Bart put the doll back in the box and covered it up. "I don't think it was meant to be." He shut the box and tucked it under his arm. "But we've faced worse than this. Just ignore it. I'll throw it away tomorrow."

"Are you going to bed now?" Sarah asked, rubbing him on the back of his neck. "I sure could use some help with that settee."

Bart stretched and sighed in appreciation. "This one's your project, sailor girl. I haven't even finished that table you gave up on last week."

She pinched them and they kissed. She fastened her arms around his waist. "Mr. Discipline. Are you going to spank me?"

"You can count on it. But not tonight—I ache all over. I'm taking a shower and then a flying leap into bed. Wake me up next week."

"Poor muscle-bound baby." They muzzled for a moment, then kissed again. "Sweet dreams. And don't leave that thing out where I can see it. It gives me the creeps."

Bart was already heading for the shower. "I'll put it under your pillow."

He took a long steaming hot shower, then dried himself and shaved. The whole day had been a puzzle and he looked forward to forgetting it in the oblivion of sleep. He turned out the lights and dropped wearily into bed, the cool sheets tingling and soothing as he settled back. He gave only the slightest thought to the doll that lay inside the box on top of the bureau. Some wacko, he told himself, out for a big laugh. They had gotten all kinds of crazy letters those first six months after he had returned from the Tulsa. Every so often, they got another, as if to remind them that an image stayed in the public mind years afterward, no matter what happened to its owner. For all he knew, it could be the work of Hamilton Dodd. He was just demented enough to think of it and just desperate enough to write that book to try it.

Bart fell asleep dreaming of ways to get even.

He was hot and sweaty and his throat was dry. The air filters were clogging again and he'd have to send Reitz down to have another look at them. They shouldn't be clogging up like that. He gave the order and turned his attention to the damage estimates Nathan Caden had just handed to him.

He was back on the Tulsa, back on the bridge, and all the men in the control room were looking at him, watching him, wondering if he could get them out. It was a touchy situation—the Mallard was hours away, with the diving bells that could take them up to safety. The attack sub, Cheyenne, was en route, good old Jim Layton in charge, so there was a chance something could be done sooner. But it was iffy, very delicate and the calculations weren't good. The man was just waiting for a lip, waiting for a mistake he could take advantage of. Like a shark, circling to attack. He'd make damn sure Caden was too preoccupied to have the chance.

It had been after Tulsa's second patrol, in February and March of 1965, that the Nay did one of those paradoxical things that drove career officers like Bart Millen nuts: the Tulsa's original executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Wade Norris, had been arrested by Charleston City Police on a drug charge. He had been relieved of his duties immediately and after a short period of deliberation, the Navy had decided to promote Nathan Caden and make him the Exec. Millen had tried to protest, citing personality conflicts and an unresolved feud from an earlier assignment together but the decision came from Fleet Headquarters in Norfolk and was based, so it was said, on Caden's exemplary performance under emergency conditions aboard the attack sub Seaspray, a few years before. There were other factors too, said the Board, that led them to feel that Caden was the best qualified man assigned to the Tulsa to take over the position, mainly the diversity of his experience (the result, Millen tried to claim, of his inability to get along with anyone anywhere, but the Board wouldn't listen). They didn't want to disrupt crew training with the Tulsa by bringing in another man. So that was that and Millen and Caden would have to make the best of it.

It had been with this kind of poisoned atmosphere that the Tulsa put to sea on her third patrol duty, April 18, 1965, a mild, wet Sunday in Charleston. One of her main mission objectives had been a rendezvous and coordinated anti-submarine engagement with the destroyer Golding, another attack sub, the Cheyenne, and elements of helicopter anti-sub units from the aircraft carrier Liberty. The highlight of the exercise was to have been a live firing of a SUBROC anti-sub missile off the coast of Brazil, using portions of the Eastern Test Range, especially Ascension Island, to track the missile's flight. It had all been set for early May.

The Tulsa had taken up station 110 nautical miles off the Brazilian coast, near the town of Sao Luis, on Friday, April 30 and the exercise had gotten underway the next day, with surface and air units of the Brazilian Navy observing and participating. The missile launch exercise, a salvo between Tulsa and the Cheyenne, had been scheduled for 10 a.m. local time on Sunday.

It had been a fine day. Bright and hot. The sea was calm.

But something had gone terribly wrong, almost from the start.

Tension mounted as 10 o'clock approached, but the men were confident and everything looked good. As the mission plan had called for, Caden had gone down to the firing room to supervise launch preparations. He had radioed up the go-ahead just minutes before ten. In the control room, all the boards were green. The range was ready. Millen signaled the start of the final count to his counterpart aboard the Cheyenne. Layton came back with a hearty all ready.

He gave the order to fire.

It was months before the Board of Inquiry was able to determine what actually happened. The firing light came on—the button had been pushed. But the tube hatch hadn't opened and the missile stayed home. As the charge of compressed air pushed the missile against its hatch door, battering it around, it scrambled the firing electronics in the solid fuel rocket motor. Inside the motor casing, the igniter jet fired and the motor roared to life with the missile still in its tube. The force breached a bulkhead and the boat began shipping water in the forward torpedo room. There was an explosion and fire and the situation became critical almost immediately. The Tulsa nosed over and sank bow first, finally plowing into the side of an underwater ledge at a depth of 660 feet.

There she stayed for almost twenty harrowing hours.

Those first hours had been frantic as the crew struggled to seal off damaged compartments and shut watertight doors to keep the stern high and buoyant enough to stop the slide. There were injuries to take care of and sick bay was son swamped. They had lost two dozen men in the explosion and fire. Miraculously or not, Nathan Caden was not one of them.

The first rescue attempt had failed; the underwater ledge was too unstable to hold if the Cheyenne moved in any closer. Any disturbance at all might push them over the edge. When the truth of their position finally sank in, the crew had fallen deathly silent, as if even a single breath could cause a fatal shift.

So they waited. And hoped. And prayed.

And somewhere at sea, the Mallard was bearing down on them, her diving bells ready. It settled down to a race against the clock. With each passing hour, the Tulsa settled further toward the end of the ledge.

Being so helpless had been excruciating to Bart Millen. He wanted to act, to do something, just to move and prove to himself they weren't powerless. The waiting was awful, numbing everything, they couldn't take it much longer, he could see it in their eyes. He could smell the fear in the control room, the growing panic oozing out of every pore. He had to do something, anything....

They were lurching forward. They were shifting. The ground was sliding, spilling over the cliff, down into that cold, crushing black canyon six thousand feet below. He had to act, to command, they were staring at him, rooted to their posts like mannequins, wooden dolls grinning at him, daring him to lead, to show them the way out.

But it was hopeless. It was too late. They were plunging, the steel hull groaning, whining, creaking under all those tons of water.

The diving bells—the painted faces—

Groaning with pressure—

Groaning—

"Bart...Bart!" The boat was coming apart. "Bart, wake up!" The sound of cannon fire, metal shrieking, the water roaring in—"Wake up, honey, it's only a dream. Bart--?"

His eyes fluttered open and he sat up abruptly in bed. The room was spinning. Blood was roaring in his ears. He was bathed in sweat.

Sarah sat next to him, smoothing back his hair. It was matted to his forehead.

He shuddered.

"Are you okay now?" She used the sheet to wipe his face dry. "You're absolutely soaked. You must have had a bad nightmare."

He mumbled something, then coughed and cleared his throat. His mouth was parched and his hands trembled. "I was dreaming of the Tulsa—"

"Oh, Bart, not again."

"—and we were sinking. We weren't being rescued. We were going down." He inhaled deeply and let the air out slowly. "This time I couldn't get out. I always did before. This time, I didn't make it, Sarah. I didn't make it back."

They both knew they wouldn't get any more sleep this night.
Chapter 8

1.

The kitchen at Gable's Cafeteria was torrid hot and alive with the sizzle of burning grease when Looby Pitts pushed his way through the swinging doors. He was looking for Willie Amos, ace steak man and senior cook; he usually worked late on Saturday evenings to help take care of the evening crush. Ozelle Bonnard, the cashier, had told him Willie was in tonight, "back there in the back with that high-roller Melvin Gates, the little sneak. You know he tried to kiss me tonight—imagine that." Looby thanked her and went looking for the man they liked to call Little Spider.

He saw him soon enough, mashing patties on the griddle, his head encased in big earphones connected to a Walkman radio on the floor. He went over and tapped him on the shoulder.

Willie Amos jumped like he had been shot and turned around to glare at Looby. He pushed his earphones back and shouted.

"What you want, Man? You scared me half to death."

Looby pushed his glasses back up his nose. "Sorry, Little Spider, but—"

"And don't call me that. Especially around here." He put down the spatula and dragged Looby off to one corner beside the freezer door. "What you want anyway?"

"You hear about that accident this morning? Down to the river?"

Willie Amos scratched his moustache with a greasy finger, eyeing the other workers uneasily. "I heard. Turrible thing. It's always bad when the town has a bresh with death like that."

"They said it was four children that died. They as bodies and parts of bodies all over the water."

"You don' have to describe it, Looby. I got ears."

"Did you hear 'bout the rumor too?"

"What rumor?"

"They was a hex on that boat. I was in the caulking shed, down to the marina, working on Mr. Hale's boat. I saw the whole thing. They was a white man got off just before I got there. He put a trick on that boat; she was crossed with the sign of death. The old man of the graveyard done visited that boat durin' the night sure as I'm standing here."

Willie rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "It wasn't no old man of the graveyard."

Looby's eyes widened. "It wasn't?"

Willie shook his head. "It was worse than that. If I'm right."

"What you mean—" and then it dawned on Looby just what he meant. He looked around nervously; his throat was suddenly dry. "you mean--?"

Willie looked him in the eye. "Mm-hmm."

"It's Daddy X, ain't it?"

"it is."

At the mention of the white root doctor, Vera Counts looked up from her salad-mixing bowl and studied the men warily for a moment. She dabbed at some sweat on her forehead with the back of her hand and sucked at her lip as she stretched her back. She seemed to shake her head just a little, a movement almost imperceptible, perhaps an involuntary shudder, then went back to her salad mixing. From time to time, she glanced up at them, her eyes narrower and darker each time.

"What you gon' do now?" Looby asked. He turned so that his back was to the rest of the kitchen. He didn't much like the look on the woman's face.

Willie checked his watch. "I don't know yet. I'm s'posed to get off at eight."

"We need us some help. I surely do hope Daddy X ain't alive and kicking again. Me—I had a run-in with him a few years back and I don' want nothing like that to happen to me again. I had me a good enough view of the good Daddy to last a long time."

"You saw him?" Willie asked.

Looby nodded. "Back in '71, I think. I was driving my truck along Gallivant Road, goin' out to Dooley to shop for greens at the market there. Somewhere 'bout that old rusted car chassis used to be sticking up out of the swamp, I seen this gator sunning hisself right in the middle of the road. I had to swerve to miss him and nearly went off the road. I had to get out to see if I bent an axle or what and you know what that ol' gator did? He stood hisself right up in his hind legs and hissed at me, then he scooted off into the bush and dove into the swamp." Looby shook his head ruefully, recalling the incident. "Ain't no one ever believed that happened but it did. I swear it. It was Daddy X I seen."

"Mos' likely," Willie agreed. He saw Mr. Gable push his way through the kitchen doors and went back to work frying meat patties on the grill. "You better git before the boss sees you back here."

Looby hid himself behind some shelves. "You gon' see your Papa about this?"

Willie shrugged. "Maybe. Just git for now. I'll talk to you later."

Looby said good-bye and slipped out through the back door of the stock room. Before he shut the door, he motioned for Willie to come over. He whispered, "If you see your Papa, get me some hex uncrossing powder. I'll pay you back. We got to be careful now."

"Your credit ain't shit with Dr. Spider and you know it. You'll have to see him yourself. Now go on." He closed the door in his face.

Willie Amos checked his watch again. It was near to eight o'clock. He knew he would have to get away soon if he was going to find his Papa at the cabin; he didn't show up there but two or three times a month, always at night, to see customers, hear some news from his son, restock the back room with herbs and leaves and roots he had spent the past few weeks gathering. Dr. Spider preferred to spend most of his time deep in the woods, wandering from one "thinkin' hole" to another, checking on his plants, mixing and grinding and brewing the medicines for which his customers gladly paid cash money and its equivalent in freshly killed chickens or homegrown vegetables. He would be there at the cabin tonight, expecting his son to visit and Willie knew there were things that needed to be talked about.

He went looking for Mr. Gable.

The cafeteria owner was in his tiny office adding up receipts when Willie poked his head in the door.

"Is it okay if I leave early tonight, Mr. Gable? I can work extra hours on Sunday or Wednesday to make up for it."

Gable was an obese bull with a drooping black moustache that he was forever chewing on. He had a florid face and a way of squinting at you that looked like a light bulb flickering out. "Why—you and the brothers going to shoot some pool over at the Capital?"

Willie swallowed his anger and said, "No, sir, I got some family business to take care of."

Gable was dimly aware of Willie's background. "Go on and leave. You ain't fooling me one bit with that 'family business.' Just be sure you're here bright and early tomorrow morning. It's going to be a long day for you, I'm afraid." With that, he ripped a handful of paper out of the adding machine and wadded it into a ball.

"Yes, sir," Willie muttered. He made sure to shut the door a little harder than necessary.

He went into the back, to the employees' washroom and changed clothes. After puttering around in his locker for a moment—damn that Vera, she took my last pack of cigarettes—he gave up hunting for a smoke and shoved open the back door. His Ford Bronco was there in the gravel parking lot, still caked with mud from his last trip with India Haynes and her son Gibby; they had gone down to Savannah the weekend before to go shopping. Willie would have done anything for India.

He cranked the truck up and wheeled it out of the parking lot by a narrow alley that gave onto King Street. In minutes, he was heading up U.S. 21 toward Gallivant Road. He crossed the new bridge next to the brick and stucco sprawl of the County's just-finished Mental Health Clinic and turned right onto Gallivant. It was a twenty-minute drive to the first big bend in the road, past the old Casey bridge. That was where he would have to abandon the truck and make the rest of the trip on foot.

Although it was dark and moonless, Willie knew the route by heart. The main problem would be getting his truck off the road and into the woods where it could be hidden; without getting stuck in the mud. The ground was low and marshy on that side of the bridge, easily flooded even in the lightest rain. He would have to be careful.

The road was nearly deserted, black and straight and shrouded on both sides by towering pine trees, forming a natural tunnel that only increased the sense of isolation. The thrumming of the tires on the asphalt set his mind to wandering.

When he asked himself the question in the cold glare of the light bulb over his bathroom sink, Willie Amos could not rightly say why he chose to let his Papa run his life the way he always had. From the first day he had been told he was to take up the craft that had come down through the family from Papa Heyward and shadowy men further back even than that, it had been that way. That was the truth of the matter, wasn't it? He had never had the choice. He well remembered that hot day in late 1948, when Papa officially chose him to carry on the family business. He spent a lot of time with that old crippled shrimper Ota Camp at his shack on the banks of the Combahee back then, mainly to avoid his afternoon root lessons in the "back room." Helping Ota repair his nets and lines and patch up his old boat was a hell of a lot more fun than doing root in that dusty old closet back of Mama's canning table.

Willie slowed down going through Dooley. The town was quiet, most of the twenty or so residents out sitting on their front porches, watching over children playing in the front yards. The whole town was little more than a scattering of white frame houses and a broken down old gas pump out in front of Mr. Hardy's store, both of them long since closed down and gone to rust. He accelerated back up to speed as soon as the city limits sign whizzed past.

If nothing else, Willie had learned one important things from old Ota: it was always best to let Life come to you, rather than to go out looking for it. Ota used to tell him to watch "that ol' river," and see how it never ran abutting into anything, but instead flowed over and around any obstacles. Ota told him he would live a long life if he did the same thing and that bit of philosophy stuck with him ever since. He'd always let things happen to him and never complained much.

Now he understood why Papa had found it so easy to run his life for him.

He came to the old Casey bridge and let the truck coast over it, the tires clattering loudly on the exposed boards. Just another mile or so, right where the highway began a long, looping bend to the right—that's where the trail was, barely discernible even in broad daylight, lost in the bush at night, but it didn't matter. He knew these woods well. Civilization had come to Bay County in the years since he had run away and returned, but it was only a coating of dust and nothing more. What remained were the woods—proud and brooding, timeless as the ocean. Willie slowed the truck again as the bend came into view. His heart had always beat louder in these woods.

At the sharpest part of the curve, he pulled off the road altogether and let the truck drift down into a narrow gully, splashing through a standing pool of water before its rear wheels bit into the ground. He tapped the gas and squeezed between two trees, their branches slapping across the windshield and poking into the front seat. Then he touched the brake and shut off the engine. Above the ticking of the still-warm engine, the screech of crickets started up.

He got out of the cab, shut the door and locked it. It would be an hour's hike to the cabin.

He found the trail in short order, although calling it a trail was like calling Dooley a town. He plunged ahead, pushing his way through a thicket of blackberry bushes, snagging his T-shirt on the thorns. The ground was cool and damp and after a few minutes, he stopped and took off his shoes, tying the together by the laces and draping them around his neck. His feet were smart; they would take him where he had to go. He wanted time to think. Time to let the strength of the woods seep in and prepare him for what was to come.

He had always found it uncomfortable to think of Papa as anything but "Dr. Spider" when he was in these woods. The closer he went to the center of the man's power, the more formal and one-sided their relationship became, something like the calm, soothing business-like way he had with all his customers. It was only when he was away from here, back in Bayville, Savannah, Atlanta or wherever, that he could shed this armor and think of the man as "just Papa." That had always puzzled Willie, the more he thought about it. It seemed to him as if it should be the other way around.

He plodded on, hardly aware of the passing of time. There was a thin sheen of sweat coating his body and he soon stripped his T-shirt off, oblivious to the raging swarms of mosquitos.

These woods were a part of Dr. Spider's power, each tree another hand, reaching out, groping for a troubled soul, gathering in the ill and the despairing, the helpless and the downtrodden. With each step, Willie could feel that power growing, radiating from the center, bathing him with a warmth and a fresh tingle the way you felt when you first stepped out of the shower.

Dr. Spider's grip is like a key, one of his customers once said. Sallie Combs, he remembered it now: "Openin' up your soul and lettin' all the goodness flow in." Or, she might have added, letting some evil wriggle out. "Evil wants to fly away when Dr. Spider's near," she liked to say. Sallie Combs was one of the regular customers.

Willie paused at a dense copse of horsenettle bushes, just off the path. He stooped down and smiled: all those boring hours in "the back room" came back to him. You couldn't forget a root lesson when Dr. Spider was teaching it. He fingered the leaves gently. He could hear Papa's—Dr. Spider's—crooning voice now.

"Horsenettle's not to play with. It's bristly and got stinging hairs, so you keeps your distance. The leaves is got three lobes, most of 'em, and the root's real deep. That's the part we want. It's like an aphrodisiac—I tol' you what that was—and sometimes we chew it with blackroot or blood root. It's good for the chills too." Then he would look at you with that look, the wrinkles around his eyes spreading out like cracks in the pavement, squinting and rubbing his bristly beard. He could tell what you were thinking.

Willie stood up with a handful of horsenettle leaves. He crushed them in his hand, letting the powder sift through his fingers. Why had he come back to Bay County? He had always blamed it on the dream he had had in the Union Mission in Atlanta after a soup dinner, a few weeks before Christmas in 1968. In this dream, his late Mama Rachel had come to him dressed in a white robe and a crown of red berries. She told him that "your Papa needs help, he ain't well, you go to him now and be with him or he'll die soon." Willie had hitchhiked back to Bayville after that night and stood shivering at the door to Papa's cabin on Christmas Eve. He had been away for fourteen years. But Papa was in good health and the premonition seemed wrong. It wasn't until a year later that he fell ill with typhoid fever and nearly died. Nursing him back to health, picking up the practice and doing root for Papa's old customers—Willie knew he had to come back. But he'd never gotten over the suspicion that maybe Dr. Spider had put that dream in his head.

Dr. Spider knew he would come home eventually and he had almost certainly used root magic to speed up the process. But, although he wanted to be bitter about it, Willie had never been able to manage that feeling. He'd given in, he's succumbed, but he was at peace with himself after all those years of living away. In the fourteen years he had been gone, living from hand to mouth, bussing tables at the Crab King in Savannah, keeping the grounds at the Mapleview Apartments in Atlanta, diddling that Spelman College co-ed until she got crazy at the Rooster Lounge and ran off with a singer in a rock group, after some petty shoplifting and drug dealing and a short stint in the City Jail, Willie had come to a deeper and more accurate understanding about himself and why Dr. Spider had chosen him, from among all his five sons, to learn the root and carry on the tradition.

"It was because I was so rebellious as a kid," he told himself. "A root doctor has a special power that he can't always control. Papa must have known I had it when I never would mind him. A root doctor is independent and self-contained and when I ran away, that just made Papa more sure. Only it took me a while to learn it."

Even when he had run away, he still hadn't been in control of things.

Willie flung the powder to the ground and dove on ahead. Dr. Spider's cabin was near—he could feel that warmth growing stronger. He splashed his way across a shallow swamp, clinging to some tree vines to keep his footing, and soon came to a tiny patch of marsh muckle growing in a half circle around the base of a live oak. The branches of the oak were festooned with the jeweled and tortured forms of mandrake root, swinging from twine tied around the limbs. A light breeze stirred the leaves.

Dead ahead was the cabin.

It wasn't much bigger than a shed, made of weathered pine board planking and a rusting tin roof. It was nearly invisible in the middle of the day, so well did the framing blend in with the woods. At night, but for the single candle lit in the open doorway, it vanished in the shadows of the pines and oaks that bulked huge and protective in the clearing.

Willie crossed the dirt landing, making sure to follow the path outlined dimly with creek stones, for to break the magic circle would be to enter the lair of the powers that Dr. Spider drew on and, for the unwary and the unsuspecting, that could be dangerous. He came at last to the sagging porch and mounted the steps, pausing in the doorway. There was a hideous witch doctor's mask nailed to a board beside the door jamb, a carved rendition of the veve, or power symbol of the voodoo god Damballah. The twin snakes seemed to writhe and snap in the guttering light of the candle.

There was low murmuring inside and Willie stepped through into the room.

Dr. Spider himself sat cross-legged on a straw mat on the other side of the room, his ancient hands resting lightly on a yell-draped wooden table, almost a footstool, in front of him. On the other side of the table sat Lettie Hatch, her eyes shut, her ample body spread out and molded to the floor, swaying gently to the sing-song chant the Doctor was crooning. A slatted screen, partially folded, lay between them and the wall, and their shadows were tall and distorted on the face of the screen as the candle flickered and popped. Around the cabin, the walls were hung with dried mandrake and gingko roots, boughs of colored leaves and the tiny frozen form of a mummified squirrel, leering down at them from the corner.

Willie stood there in the doorway for a moment, and Dr. Spider paid him no attention at all. He let himself in and sat down quietly in the middle of the floor, brushing aside some dirt and pine needles. He watched his Papa do the trick and put the hex uncrossing spell on Lettie Hatch.

In the liquid orange candle light, he could see the sweat of deep concentration on Dr. Spider's face. He was a slight man, frail and bony, approaching seventy, with a patchily bald head and deeply wrinkled and weathered skin. For a man his age, his fingers were surprisingly youthful and delicate and he used them now to reinforce the power of the spell by lightly touching Lettie's palms. She shivered and moaned in response.

He was nearly blind, with a fine discriminating squint to his eyes and a deep, resonant voice that filled every pore in your skin as well as your ears. His skin was old and dusty, but still the faint outlines of the ritual spider markings could be seen in good light, on his arms and face, his legs and his neck. The spell casting was almost always done at night, and in the pale light, those faint spiders would come to life and grin at his customer and in that way, his power was increased and made plain to the bad spirit. Lettie Hatch moaned again and Dr. Spider's drone deepened. He held her fingers tightly.

"Guede Nimbo Daddy Exu, Guede Nimbo

What makes you do no good.

When I am present, you tell good of me.

When I am gone, you speak bad of me.

Never, never speak evil of me.

He released her fingers for a moment, and poised his hand above the table, searching for the right icon. The table was covered with fetishes, hex dolls, small herb roots, vessels of metal and porcelain and a large bejeweled mandrake root. He selected instead a small wand carved from wood with a gargoyle's face at one end. With it, he tapped Lettie once on the palm of her hand, once on the other palm, then bade her open her eyes and extend her arms out full.

She did so, taking only the slightest notice of Willie's presence, and Dr. Spider leaned forward himself and groped for her shoulders, which he gripped reassuringly.

"This hex is dissolving, I see it now. This hex can be killed. It's fadin' away even as I talk. You know this, don't you? You feel it weakening right now."

Lettie mumbled and nodded her head.

Dr. Spider produced a silver chalice, full of water. "You puts your finger in here," he told her. When she had complied, he put his own right forefinger into the cup and then, with his other hand, touched gently the back of her neck.

"This is tour brain, Lettie, right back here. It ain't nothing but 'lectricity, going up and down your spine, every second of the day, every day of your life. Your brain tells when to love and hate, when to eat and sleep, when to feel good and when to feel bad. Tonight, I'm gon' make your brain tell you to feel good, to feel at peace with yourself. The spell Daddy X put on you is nothing before me. You know this. Forget yesterday. Think about tomorrow. I'm gon' pull out the root of this evil that's in you and you gon' be a better person tomorrow."

He reached into the pocket of his shirt and pulled out some worry stones, which he carefully pressed into Lettie's palm. "You squeeze these for a moment." When she had done this, he put her other palm over the jeweled mandrake root on the table. "This is mandrake, Lettie, very powerful root. You know this. She'll bring you good luck, make your brain tell you to feel good. With this, you can do anything your mind wants you to do."

He gave her a piece of tissue he had dipped in the silver chalice. Lettie rubbed it softly for a moment, then gave it back. She knew the ritual by heart. Dr. Spider dipped the tissue into another cup, this one porcelain. Over the top of the cup, he placed a small square of cardboard. He put another cup of water on top of this. Holding the device securely in front of him, he turned it upside down and slid off the cardboard. The water stayed in the cup, defying gravity.

Dr. Spider then put his hand on Lettie's neck again. The ritual was repeated, exactly as before. When this was done, he struck a match and lit the end of the tissue still resting in the bottom of the cup. Instantly, it burst into flame and the tissue was quickly consumed, leaving behind only a puff of blue obsidian smoke.

"The bad root is dead," he murmured, now gripping Lettie's fingers tighter than ever. "You know this."

Lettie murmured back and nodded her understanding. She took a breath and straightened up, smiling faintly, with some relief at Willie. He nodded back.

Dr. Spider pressed a tiny square packet into her hands, made of blue felt, into which powerful herbs and powders had been sewn. "This is your amulet, Lettie. You are free now, free of Daddy X.s spell, which he wrongfully cast upon you. You seen it go, so I'll give you this amulet. You keep it with you always. Don' lose it. If you do, or if it gets into somebody else's hands, 'specially somebody that don't like you, you let me know right away."

"I will, Dr. Spider." She hoisted herself up with a groan, Willie helping her. "And thank you. I'll put my payment in your pot."

Dr. Spider remained sitting, his eyes closed, chin firm. "I only want to help, that's all."

"Oh, you have already. I don' feel nearly so depressed as I did. Now I know that Daddy X cain't do nothing for a while. I can rest easy, speak with Earl and I won't snap so at Riley. 'Course he cain't hear anyway. But he knows, he can tell. I always feel so much better when I leave here. Thank you, Dr. Spider. Next month?"

"Next month."

"I'll go now. Thanks again, for all you done." She ambled over to the door and dropped a sack of coins into a porcelain vase beside the door hinge. It clinked. "Good to see you again, Little Spider. You learn good from your Papa, you hear?" She hitched up her purse.

"I will, Miz Lettie. Good to see you too."

With that, she squeezed through the door, went out onto the stoop, and disappeared into the woods.

When she was gone, Willie turned back to his Papa and helped him clear the wooden table and place the instruments of the trade back in their proper slots along the walls. For several minutes, neither said anything.

When that was done, Dr. Spider lit himself a briar pipe and puffed for a while, as he stirred some tea that been sitting in a black pot in the corner. He sat himself down on a cushion beside the pot and too a few sips. Willie folded up the table.

"I thought you wasn't coming tonight," Dr. Spider said. His eyebrows drooped with fatigue. "This root business ain't nothing but superstition."

Willie rummaged in his Papa's carry-sack for something to eat. All he could find was half a piece of black cherry bark, good for arthritis. He started sucking on it and sat down with his back propped against the slatted screen.

"You always say that, Papa. Every time I come. You know I'll be here."

Dr. Spider chewed over that for a moment. "I 'spose." He squinted in his son's direction. "It's bad in the town lately?"

Willie nodded. "Mm-hmm. You heard about that accident out on the river today?"

"I heard."

"There's rumors it wasn't no accident."

"I heard."

"It's Daddy X, ain't it?"

For a few minutes, he didn't reply. Willie saw his face harden in the candlelight, the wrinkles battling each other for position. "I expect that's what it is—the Alligator Man risen up from the swamp and gone out to do bad. Lettie Hatch think so."

"What are you going to do?"

Dr. Spider smiled faintly. "I have always offered my services to the community."

"Folks is scared. I hear even the buckra don't like it."

"White folks always get nervous 'bout things they don't understand. This ain't the same Daddy X anyway."

"What do you mean? How do you know?"

Dr. Spider puffed on his pipe for a while. "I jus' feel it, that's how I know anything. This Daddy X don' work the same. We didn't have no Alligator Man back in the Thirties."

"This ain't the same white root doctor you feuded with before?"

He shook his head. "It's another man, takin' up the name, still a powerful man, mind you, but not the same. This Daddy X don't have customers, not in the usual sense. He's using his power for other reasons, reasons I ain't figured out yet. I ain't even sure whether my power can match his or not. He's outhexed me quite a bit the last ten years." He leveled a steady gaze at his son. "Might be I need some help."

Willie swallowed, knowing full well that he was powerless to steer the conversation away from this. "I wish you wouldn't talk like that. I cain't do what you can."

Dr. Spider leaned forward on his cushion. "You can do it and you know it. You know you got the power, Willie. You took over for me when I had the fever. Folks think you can do it." He sat back and judged his son carefully. "It's a true fact."

"Papa, we talk about this every time I come up here."

"So we do. I tol' you what your destiny was a long time ago. You are fated to meet and do battle with Daddy X, just as sure as you are sittin' there chewin' on the bark. You was born just before the real Daddy X disappeared back in '39 and it was your comin' what scared him off. You cain't ever get away from that, no matter you deny it or not."

"Papa—"

He held up his hand. "You remember what you promised me on my deathbed, when I had the fever?"

"Papa, I—"

"You said you could do the root. You said you would do it 'cause you knew that was the only way to fight the fever. Your brothers wanted you to take me down to the hospital and get shots but you wasn't sure about it. Why wasn't you sure about it, Willie? Why? 'Cause you got the power and you know it. You cain't run away from that."

"Papa, it's not in me. It just ain't. I ain't like you. Folks think I am, they think I'm gon' be jus' like you. But I cain't be Little Spider. You were always bigger than me, Papa. When I was a boy, you were big and scary and the kids ran away when they found out who I was. Even now, you are bigger than me, 'cause you are a legend as well as a man. You keep getting' bigger and bigger and I keep getting' smaller and smaller. Pretty soon, Papa, I be so small you'll think I'm one of those skeeters. I'll get swatted down—" he took a long draw of tea from the cup.

Dr. Spider chewed on his pipe stem for a few minutes. His eyes narrowed. The candle over the door popped a few times before he spoke again.

"I don' know what will happen between me and Daddy X. We been duelin' for ten years already. But you are part of me, Willie Amos, like it or not, and it's our power together that stands between the white ju-ju man and the good people of this county. I'm an old man now and I don' know how much longer I can last. But we—you and me—are all that there is between Bay County and chaos. Somehow, 'fore I pass on, I got to do one of two things: either get your full attention on this grave matter or try and do in Daddy X by myself, once and for all. Otherwise—" he shrugged, "the folks are wide open for bad root and the fires of Hell will burn a little hotter every day."

Willie stared at the floor, nudging pine needles back and forth across a gap in the planking. Somehow, it always came to this point. When you broke an arm, the only thing you could do was set it straight and hope it mended right. He knew he'd given Papa a lot of pain over the years.

"Papa, there's stories about some of the children going around. Behaving strangely, acting like there was strong conjure magic pullin' on them, reeling 'em in like stripers. I hear tell of it a good bit lately, 'specially around the cafeteria."

Dr. Spider nodded knowingly. "That is an old trick of the white root doctor. We have to be patient. It ain't time for the final battle yet."

"When will it be time?"

Dr. Spider lay back against the wall and rested for a while. He closed his eyes and seemed to be sleeping. "When the hag-hollerin gets real loud and the trees start to bleed...then it will be time. Daddy X can be beaten; he's mortal as you or me...I've seen him. But we got to be careful, 'cause he's ruthless and very powerful. He knows the root." Suddenly, he leaned forward, snapping his head up straight. His eyes opened and bored into Willie. "Don't say this to nobody but I know things about the Daddy that no one else knows, or even suspects. I know the real source of his power."

"What are you going to do?"

Dr. Spider smiled; he didn't have many teeth left. "I see on your face you are a root man." He allowed himself a coughing chuckle, spitting out a wad of phlegm when he got his breath back. "I'm gon' study him. Shadow him. Lay a trap to expose and defeat him. A trap he can't get out of. I'm gon' use his power against him."

"That'll take time, Papa. The buckra are getting nervous. They'll do something rash before long. That boat wreck stirred 'em up bad."

"It won't do 'em no good," Dr. Spider said. "Daddy X can only be beaten with root. The white folks had best leave well enough alone. This confrontation will come—I foreseen it a long time ago. It don' make no difference who or what Daddy X is. Our duel was meant to be—you being born is proof of that. We got to be prepared."

The light of the candle was only a faint glimmer now, coils of smoke drifting into the room. Willie stood up and massaged his legs.

"It's time for me to go, Papa. I got to be at work early tomorrow."

Dr. Spider made no effort to get up. He puffed on his pipe until he head was enveloped in smoke. "You remember what I've said. As the day of judgment gets closer, you gon' have to take over more and more and leave me time to think. Time to gather my powers. Tell that buckra Sheriff to stay out of my woods. He messes in things he don' understand."

Willie was already at the door. "'Bye, Papa. See you in a few weeks."

"—and listen to what folks says. If they are scared, you tell 'em Dr. Spider is working for 'em—" he stopped, realizing that his son had already left the cabin, disappearing through the veil of smoke at the door. He was gone, quick as he had come. "I could've talked to myself and got better conversation," he muttered. He groaned and went about the task of hoisting himself up. It was late and he was tired. He had things to do before he could leave for the nearest "thinkin hole." He had to be there before midnight. Otherwise, the wood spirits would get in and mess with his garden. If you weren't careful, they'd steal all your powers away quicker than a creek floods.

It was always now, right after seeing Willie as he did once very few weeks that the fist of an old fear began to squeeze his stomach. It made his heart turn cold to realize that folks' traditional belief in root was slowly, inexorably withering away and that the grand fraternity of which he had been a part all his life would soon be no more. Papa Heyward, you was right after all. Dr. Spider had always feared what the future would bring to Bay County; he had always feared modernity itself. The future was a hex he knew couldn't outwit—it would come and do whatever it chose to his people. And they were his people, even still. He had always considered it his mission to defend them against outside depredations, whether they be death roots placed by Daddy X or a new resort development or the virus of spiritual malaise or even the injustices of life itself. All of these, he knew he could deal with. But crumbling faith in the young and the onrushing future were something else. If there was one thing he feared more than anything else, it was being passed by and made irrelevant. "One day, I be more common than swamp flies," he liked to say. He always snorted at the thought, but there it was.

He rummaged behind the slatted screen for the small cloth satchel he had brought with him to the cabin. He picked it up and drew the string, staring at the odd metallic contents the bag contained. He didn't know what these devices were, only that they were at the heart of Daddy X's power. He had found them that sweltering hot August not in 1978, when he had crouched in the limbs of a cypress tree outside the cabin Daddy X so seldom used and watched the gator man come and go all night long. Between his hurried visits, Dr. Spider had slipped down to the ground and stolen into the shed and found these ritual objects. One of them was a round, coil-like disk, with big black rubber lips attached to one side. The other was a stem-shaped metal tube; the letters REG could be made out in good light, scratched into the underside. Metallic amulets, both of them. Neither contained any powders or leaves that he could see. But he was sure they were important.

And Daddy X knew that he had them.

He had found that out, a few weeks later, a near-fatal lesson, when he had plunged into the camouflaged pit full of punji sticks outside one of his thinking holes and nearly impaled himself. Daddy X was more cunning than he had imagined; he had been lucky. What was worse—he seemed impervious to every hex he had cast. That chilled him to his bones. Here was a man who knew and practiced root well, yet he was seemingly immune to all the spells and roots he had cast. He had not yet solved the riddle of his power, of how he was able to change himself back and forth to the Alligator Man. Dr. Spider had even toyed with the idea of reporting what he knew to Sheriff Tatum. But he had decided against it.

He wanted to fight this Daddy X on his own turf, by the rules of root; he wanted to defeat the gator man as a root doctor so that he could claim for himself the title of most powerful root man of all time. It was important that he be seen to triumph once and for all over his nemesis. Then, maybe Willie would take up the craft for good. Then, he would have equaled Papa Heyward's legendary exploits.

But first, he would have to watch Daddy X closely and learn his weaknesses. He would have to master this new and powerful alien root before he could defeat its chief practitioner.

Before he could leave for his thinkin' hole, Dr. Spider had to make sure his cabin was well protected against a bad trick. From a felt pouch that he always kept hooked by a thong to his belt, he withdrew a tiny bottle of Rose of Crucifixion oil. He shook it once, then dabbed a few drops on his forehead. He went around the inside of his cabin and sprinkled more in every corner. When the circle was complete and he was standing on the outside, he put the bottle back in the pouch and turned to douse the candle completely. Then he backed slowly out the door until the heels of his feet just hung over the edge of the stoop.

He fumbled with another pouch he kept tucked into a shirt pocket. From this pouch, he made a large X with pale yellow Get-Away powder, the better to protect the entrance. Stepping off the stoop, he walked backward nine paces and stopped. He did not look back. He stood still for a moment, letting the sounds and smells of the woods enter him, letting himself dissolve into the dirt and take up the power of the spirits in the trees. In a minute, it was done.

Dr. Spider walked slowly forward, back toward the cabin, one last time, careful to step in the footprints he had made backing out. When he stood before the stoop, he broke open an old snuff box full of mixed red pepper, saltpeter, and brimstone and sprinkled it liberally across the step. The cabin was now sealed.

He tucked the box into a pocket and quickly vanished into the bush. As he did, a fat black screech owl screeched into the night. Its shrieking easily muffled the sound of his departure.
Chapter 9

1.

Jimmy Lattimore felt so good he almost sang out loud. The Jeep Renegade swerved from one side of the road to the other as he fondled the pistol he had stolen not ten minutes ago, a clean sweep from that trailer he had stumbled across hiking through the woods. He'd hot-wired the Jeep, stuffed a grocery sack full of cans and bread loaves from the kitchen and taken a quick shower to boot, all without being seen or caught. If he kept on like this, he just knew Corporal Steen would recommend him to the Green Berets or the Seals. He was sneakier than all of them put together.

I'll show the pissant fuckers.

The only thing he hadn't found in the trailer was money. It seemed like the occupant must have been some kind of artist or something. Name of Clyde Kiernan. The place was full of wood carvings, statues really. Sculptures of violent men straining against each other in combat. The woods around the trailer were strewn with one-eighth scale model plywood tanks and aircraft cockpits and one partially-finished pine carving of some kind of medieval English pikeman with a broadsword rammed right through his gut. Jimmy Lattimore had shuddered when he had run into that in the middle of the night. The guy was some kind of war nut, positively weird.

He and Steen would have gotten along great.

He found something else of interest though. Aside from the pictures of an old mangy, white-haired fellow with a deep burnished tan and slit eyes, standing next to a buffalo he had apparently shot with his rifle—he figured this had to be Kiernan himself—there was another picture, this one of a girl, a woman. She was pretty. A pert brunette with a big grin and farmer's coveralls, her arms and shoulders bare and shining in strong sunlight. The name scrawled at the base of the photograph was Shelley Raines. There were letters in the cabinet underneath the picture, too.

Jimmy Lattimore had read every one of them when he was in the shower.

She was a sculptor herself and she ran a gallery for sculptors and painters and other artists in the area from a little cottage tucked away in a woodsy setting near Hilton Head Island. There was an address: "just off U.S. 17 at the bridge," read the letterhead she had written Kiernan on.

Lattimore smile as he wheeled the Jeep on down the narrow road. Little Miss Shelley Raines was hot to trot with big virile he-man Clyde Kiernan. That much was evident from the letters.

He glanced down at the photo of Shelley Raines again. There was no mistaking why the picture had caught his eye now. It was incredible—she couldn't have looked more like Ginny Gaines from back at school if she had tried. Good old Lipstick Ginny—he'd wanted to climb into her pants from the first day of Algebra to the last day of World Geography. Who hadn't, back then? And there she was now, or close enough, shining up at him on a moonlit night rocking down the road in a neat looking Jeep, just begging him to dive right in with his mouth wide open.

He could have snared Lipstick Ginny like a fish on a hook if he'd had the Jeep back then.

He looked at the address again. It didn't seem too hard to find.

But first, he needed some money. He had no real idea where he was at the moment—the road was bumpy and narrow, no major highway from the looks of it. He decided to take Roger Harbin's advice—he'd bunked with Roger for a while in Basic—about finding out where you were when you knew you were lost. "When in doubt," Roger had always said, "turn right at the next light." He decided to give it a try.

Soon enough, he saw he road coming to a dead end, intersecting another road that was better paved and considerably busier. The sign said Highway 170. He waited to let a truck pass, then pulled out behind it, getting up to speed in no time.

He hadn't traveled more than a few minutes, crossing a narrow river and a field of dense marsh grass, when he spied a Seven-Eleven along the side of the road, nestled in a grove of oak trees. It was brightly lit, but the parking lot was deserted save for one car. Probably the manager.

Lattimore slowed the Jeep and let it coast onto the gravel, coming to a stop next to a telephone pole tacked with all kinds of posters. He cut the engine. The pistol had never left his grip. He went inside.

The manager was a squat, burly man, with bushy red hair and thick mutton chops. He glanced up from his comic book as Lattimore pushed through the door.

Lattimore went over to the counter. He felt for the .45 tucked into his rear pocket.

The manager wore a dingy white shirt streaked with oil. The name plate said Chip. Chip looked up when Lattimore's shadow crossed his face. He put the comic boom down.

"Yes, sir?"

Lattimore moistened his lips. "Pack of Kools, please." He pulled the pistol out as Chip turned to find the cigarettes. His wrist ached from gripping the handle so hard.

Chip found the pack and turned back. He stopped in mid-motion, his eyes wide and mouth agape. A little half-mewl, half-gulp finally came out.

"Uh...."

Jimmy Lattimore waved the gun in his face; the barrel seemed ten yards long. "Open that cash register. Right now!"

Chip jumped like he'd been stung. "Yeah...uh, sure, you bet...." He fumbled with the keys, nearly dropping them, but he finally got the drawer open. It slid out with a clunk. "Look, buddy...we don't carry much cash around here at—"

"Shut up!" Lattimore leaned over the counter to see what was in the drawer. A few tens and twenties was all. "Put it in a sack." He leveled the pistol at Chip's red nose. "Come one, shitface. Your wallet, too. And I still want those Kools." His mouth was suddenly dry as dust.

Chip took all the bills out and laid them on the counter. Carefully, his eyes on the barrel of the gun the whole time, he slipped his wallet out and laid it alongside the money. Then he reached under the counter, for a sack. The corners of his mouth twitched, a grimace, a smile, it was hard to tell. "Don't worry, buddy, I ain't going to try anything."

Lattimore jerked the gun. "Get that other hand up—"

Chip complied, whipping out a pistol of his own. The sudden move startled him and Lattimore squeezed the trigger out of reflex. Good old Corporal Steen hadn't ever complained about him on the firing range. The thing went off like a cannon—Jesus, that feels like a sixteen—and Chip's frozen face exploded in blood. The impact slammed him back into the cigarette rack and then to the floor. Pieces of face and skull were splattered everywhere. The smell of powder was overpowering and Jimmy Lattimore gagged.

"Shit...." He grabbed up the loose bills and Chip's wallet and dashed out of the store. He was in the Jeep and tearing off down the highway in seconds, weaving back and forth across the road as he tried to examine the contents of the wallet and drive at the same time.

He drove for some time, in a daze, barely breathing, before he felt his stomach settle down. The blood was roaring in his ears. That badass Steen won't be laughing now, he told himself. The thought made him feel a lot better. He settled back to enjoy the drive, even turned on the radio. It was tuned to a country station. Saturday night, cruising the back roads, listening to Johnny Paycheck singing "Take This Job and Shove it." All he needed now was a girl cuddled up next to him.

He dug into his pocket and pulled out that Raines girl's address.

It took him nearly an hour to find the place. He saw only one sign on the way, a little hand-lettered poster nailed to a tree, barely visible at the Broad River bridge.

SHELLEY RAINES GALLERY

U.S. 17 At the Bridge

He drove on for ten minutes, found Highway 17, and made a left turn. Then he put the pistol down on the front seat. It was the first time he had let it go since leaving Kiernan's trailer.

Except for the occasional truck thundering by, the highway was deserted. Jimmy wondered what time it was. Outside, the moon was a slice of orange rind, peaking in and out of the pine boughs. The air was sticky and rich with crepe myrtle and honeysuckle. The road was like a tunnel, with a vaulted ceiling of oak limbs and spangles of wild jasmine. He could smell the scummy odor of stagnant swamp water alongside. Murky tawny pools filled the fitches, reflecting his own headlights. He could hear the din of crickets too, even over the thrumming of the tires on the asphalt, and above that, the staccato cawing of turkey buzzards, nesting up high in the pine trees, sniffing the light breeze for the scent of death.

Jimmy Lattimore smiled in spite of himself in the green glow of the dashboard light. It sure was a fine night for cruising. He crooned along with Johnny Paycheck.

The highway widened to four lanes a few miles before it crossed over the creek to Hilton Head Island. He geared down and tapped the brakes to slow the Jeep as soon as he passed a sign warning of the turn-off to Duck Cove Plantation. A billboard came zooming up out of the night: PINELAND MALL 5 MILES AHEAD. He slowed down some more. The shadowy hump of a bridge was dead ahead.

And sure enough, just like her Heaven Sent-dipped letter to Clyde Kiernan had promised, a carved wooden sign stuck on a post marked the entrance to a winding dirt road a few hundred feet from the bridge. He whipped the Jeep off the road and went bumping up the narrow lane, low-hanging branches smacking into the windshield. Before he had gone too far, he cut off the head lights.

It was a rutted dirt path full of tree roots and rocks. There were flower beds alongside the lane and wooden figurines and statuettes swinging from some of the lower branches. A tiny cottage, well lighted, lay ahead. Jimmy Lattimore stopped the Jeep before it left the shelter of the woods and shut off the engine.

He groped for the pistol and got out.

The cottage was a white frame box, with striped awnings over the windows and trellises full of vines hanging in front. The front porch lights and outside spots were on, chasing shadows from a semi-circle around the walkway. Jimmy stuck to the woods and made his way around to the side of the cottage. A window was open and some Beach Boys music drifted out.

He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled up to the bushes underneath the window. They were sticker bushes and he bit his tongue to keep from crying out in pain. Slowly, he raised up, peering over the top of the flower box, squinting into the light through the geraniums and snapdragons. Looking in, he got the thrill of his life.

There was a girl inside—Shelley Raines, he assumed—and she was naked except for a white baseball cap stuck on her head. Wheat blond hair spilled down her back and her thighs and hips were smeared with several different shades of paint and plaster. She was wriggling to the driving rhythm of "Little GTO" and prancing around a half-formed clay shape in the center of the room; it looked like a studio from the row of busts and statues and odd-shaped mounds lining the walls. The air was thick with the smell of clay and plaster of Paris and Jimmy almost coughed. He sank down to the ground to clear his throat and dry his stinging eyes. Then, he stood up on his tip-toes again.

He hadn't the faintest idea of what she was molding with all that plaster. From time to time, she would drop the bowl of clay she was patting into shape and reach for a glass of wine, taking a sip and wiping her brow with the back of her arm. The whole time he watched, she never ceased dancing in time to the music, switching moves easily as the music changed to something a little softer. Whatever it was she was making, it looked to Jimmy like a dynamited tree stump. She picked up the clay and went back to work.

Just then, the telephone rang. Shelley Raines quickly put the bowl away, skipped over to the stereo and turned the volume down and snatched up the phone all in one motion. She turned halfway facing the window as she talked and Jimmy gulped hard as he got a better view. His crotch hardened and he shivered.

She really did look a lot like Ginny Gaines. Miles better than anything he'd had since he had joined the Corps. He ducked below the flower box as she turned again, this time face on. She had a husky voice.

"Just you and me,, Denise," she was saying. "Right...a little private showing, you know. Just the two of us. I want your opinion on this thing. Yeah...."

Jimmy Lattimore fondled the handle of the .45 absent-mindedly.

"That's right—you got it. We'll even have a little Cabernet, if I don't finish the bottle tonight. Bring that bread you were telling me about too. May as well pig out completely."

Jimmy licked his lips. He ducked down again and went skulking around the back of the cottage, looking for another way in. Lipstick Ginny wouldn't be saying no tonight—he was after a fucking Marine, after all. He hopped up onto a small wooden deck in back of the cottage. He tried the door. It was locked but just barely. With a little work, he could spring it. He crouched down and set to work.

It was then that the powerful scent of something wet and musky filled his nose. He stood straight up and peered off into the woods. He knew that smell. He knew it better than he wanted to. He didn't breathe for a moment.

Something shifted in the bush. A shape caught the moonlight and reflected it back.

The sight made his blood run cold.
Chapter 10

1.

It was Sunday afternoon and Sarah Millen was nervous and edgy, just as Wally Voss had warned she would be. Today was her first real house showing and she wanted it to go well. Her stomach was doing somersaults as she turned at the sign marked SHELLEY RAINES GALLERY and drove on up the dirt lane toward the little cottage.

In the back seat, Henry and Ruth Montaine both exclaimed at the dazzling rows of red camellias and tulips along the lane.

"Aren't they just exquisite?" Ruth asked. "You say Miss Raines is a sculptress as well?"

"That's right," Sarah said. "There's the cottage now." She pulled around the circle of gravel and stopped right at the front porch. "Shelley usually drives down to Savannah on Sunday afternoons. Supplies and all. She said to make ourselves right at home. I think you'll like it."

They got out and made one circuit of the cottage before Sarah unlocked the front door. They went in.

Sarah flipped on the light. They were in the small living room, the walls lines with ceramic objects and small busts. She remembered what Wally had told her about first impressions: People here like to have their money stroked—don't come on too strong. She took a deep breath and forced herself to remain calm.

"It's small but cozy," she told them. Ruth Montaine went over to examine one of the busts—a head and shoulders piece that looked like two birds fighting. Henry stared up at the cosmic sunburst Shelley had painted on the ceiling. "Two bedrooms, one and a half baths. Connections for all appliances. Shelley doesn't have a dishwasher but you can put one in."

Henry rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "The lady has odd tastes. Is the whole house like this?"

"Oh, Henry, isn't it exciting?" Ruth brought a tiny ceramic cat over for her husband to examine. "She's very talented." Under the bright glare of a spotlight mounted on the wall, they realized the cat had three eyes. A tiny human face peered out of its mouth. Ruth shuddered. Henry handed the cat back to Sarah.

"A little sick, if you ask me," he said. Sarah reddened and quickly hid the thing behind some books on a shelf.

"Shelley said to look the place over good," Sarah told them. "The kitchen's in there. It's compact and very efficient." She smiled brightly at Ruth.

They spent the next few minutes going through the kitchen and the bedrooms. There was a huge bay window at one end of the kitchen; the view gave onto a short expanse of grass and then woods, thick and tangled. The kitchen cabinets were covered with kitchen sketches of statues and sculptures, heavy construction paper tacked to every inch of space available. Dirty cups and saucers lined the sink.

The bedrooms were small; only one of them was used as a bedroom. The other room was for supplies. It was dark, draped in blackout curtains and a segment of a U.S. Army parachute, onto which stenciled dragons could be dimly seen. There were more shelves, boards really, stacked over painted cinder blocks, holding cans of paint, several easels, mixing bowls with dried plaster caked on the rims and several blocks of hard stone—granite or perhaps marble—into which faintly Oriental designs had been lightly chiseled.

"A little light would do wonders for this room," Ruth muttered.

"I wonder if she did the cobwebs too," Henry said.

Sarah shut the door—that was what Shelley wanted—and led them around an antique chest sitting in the middle of the hall. The hardwood floors were stained with random drops and splotches of paint and gesso; wood shavings were neatly piled beside the chest.

"Here's the family room," Sarah told them, indicating the room on the other side. "I'll warn you now, it's a mess. Shelley uses it for her studio. But you'll see it has possibilities." She switched on the lights—the walls were mounted with bright spotlights—and waved them in.

The room itself was about the size of the living room but it seemed much smaller. Much of the space was taken up with a tree stump-like mound in the middle. Statues and carvings and other odd pieces were scattered around the floor, most of them seemingly unfinished. There were busts of famous people mounted along one wall, opposite the windows. Sarah recognized a likeness of Elvis Presley, carved in oak. The bust showed Elvis from his face to his waist, belting out a ballad and doing a mean twist.

"It's really a cute little place, don't you think Henry?" Ruth was examining the bust next to Elvis. "We'd have to do some work, but like Sarah says, it has potential."

Henry grunted. "When would this lady be able to vacate?"

Sarah consulted a piece of paper in her purse. "Two months. She's moving onto Hilton Head. Still looking for an apartment, I understand."

Ruth spotted quartet of mannequins propped up against the door to a closet. She went over to look at them. They were wax dummies, fully life-size, although she didn't recognize any of them. "Does she work in wax too?"

Sarah came over. "Shelley works in just about every medium. She's got quite a collection of doll miniatures, in wax and wood, you name it. She distributes all up and down the East Coast. Here, there's probably some in the closet." She opened the door and pulled it back.

For a moment, the sight didn't register. The door blocked much of the light coming from the spots, so the shadows were deep. The light played across the opening in shafts of dappled white, making it hard to distinguish anything inside. Sarah froze in horror, letting go the door handle. The weight of the body pushed the door open wide.

Both women throttled a scream.

Sarah staggered back, feeling the blood drain from her face. She fell right into Henry Montaine's arms.

Oh...God....She could feel her lunch coming up.

There on the back of the closet door, only partly illuminated in the shadows, was Denise Dunn, her next door neighbor. Mounted, like a specimen, a sharp hook protruding through the front of her neck. Her face was purple and badly bruised, her mouth open in a silent cry, her tongue swollen and puffy. She was naked on the hook, or nearly so, and crudely disemboweled, the gaping wounds in her abdomen stuffed with sawdust and plaster of Paris, the smell of decay and blood and wood chips and urine and God knew what else now spilling out into the room, overpowering.

Henry gagged at the sight. His wife fainted and crumpled to the floor.

He helped Sarah back to her feet and rushed to his wife's side.

"Ruth?" He lifted her head up, patting her cheeks gently. "Ruth, you okay?" Ruth shook her head groggily, her eyelids fluttering. Her cheeks were pale and she wet her lips experimentally.

Sarah felt weak. "I'm going to the bathroom." She felt her way out of the room and down the hall. Her face was hot and beaded with sweat. She pushed open the bathroom door and hit the light switch. She never made it to the toilet.

Dangling from a towel rod in the shower was something Sarah would much rather have not seen. There were no shadows to obscure her vision this time and she bit her hand and groped for the bowl of the sink, the door handle, the shower curtain, anything to stay on her feet. Her legs were gone. Her mind rebelled at the sight.

It was Shelley Raines, strangled to a pale blue pallor, twisting gently at the end of a short length of drapery cord, tied around the towel rack. The body was slumped back against the tile like a slab of meat. Dark brown tracks of dried blood trickled down into the tub, forming a delicate spidery coil that seemed incongruously perfect, as if it had been stenciled there. In her last seconds of consciousness, Sarah didn't even see the pieces of newspaper tacked to Shelley's cheeks and breasts. Grainy old photos. Portions of headlines and articles.

Back in the studio-den, Henry Montaine was helping Ruth cautiously to her feet. They both jumped at the sound of a body thumping to the floor.

2.

Verne Tatum took out a handkerchief and dabbed at the sweat clouding his eyes. He watched as Rudy Neely helped the other men hoist Denise Dunn's body down from the coat rack, her head lolling awkwardly to one side. His stomach turned at the sight and he was glad he had ordered the women out of the cottage altogether. He spied that annoying Post reporter Hamilton Dodd by the door, furiously taking notes.

Won't do the tourist trade any good.

When Dodd stuffed his notepad in a pocket and whipped out a camera to take some pictures, Tatum had had enough.

"Get your shots later, Dodd. You're trespassing in a crime scene."

Dodd ignored him. The camera started clicking. "Who did it, Sheriff? Got any ideas?"

Tatum swallowed his anger. He grabbed the end of the camera with his hand and pushed Dodd out the door, his eyes still glued to the rangefinder. "I got an idea you better move your butt, son. I got a mind to pin this thing on you. Or maybe those sick stories you write in the paper."

Dodd snatched his camera out of Tatum's hand. "I give my readers what they want, Sheriff. It's a free country."

"Would you give 'em poison if they asked? Now get out of the way." He shooed Dodd off behind the orange CRIME SCENE ropes and went back into the cottage. Dr. Macklin was there. Deputy Neely and two attendants had brought Shelley Raines' body out on a stretcher and laid it on the floor, next to the tree stump she had been working on.

Tatum studied the man's ace. "Cause of death?"

Macklin's face puckered up in thought. He ran his hands through thin blond hair. "Strangulation, that's my guess. Of course, we'll do an autopsy. Her neck's broken, by the way."

Tatum nodded. To Neely: "You get any prints, Rudy? Anything we can use?"

Neely nodded, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. His face was pale and sickly. "Yeah, I think so. Here's them photos that were tacked to the body." He handed the Sheriff a sheaf of newspaper pictures, yellowing around the edges, crumbly to the touch. "Don't know what to make of them." He helped the attendants haul the body out the door and into a waiting ambulance.

Tatum felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned. It was Bart Millen. Guy Dunn was with them, ashen and grim. His dark eyebrows were low and he was chain-smoking. He seemed to be in a daze. Tatum put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

"We'll get him," he said.

Guy Dunn grunted. "Who you reckon did this?"

Tatum sniffed. "Don't have many clues yet. My guess is that AWOL Marine. You got that file on him yet?"

Dunn didn't look at him. He didn't look anywhere but at the back of the closet door. Streaks of dried blood had run down to the floor. "She wanted to move. We talked about it the other day. She never liked this place." He snorted, almost laughed. "I told her to show em steel." He winced at the memory, forcing a smile for the others. "My Daddy used to say things like that." He shuddered, even though it was stifling hot in the cottage.

Tatum nodded, understanding. "Send that file as soon as you can, Colonel."

Guy Dunn nodded, mumbling something only he could hear. He walked automatically over to the closet.

Tatum felt something hot in the back of his throat. He had been Sheriff of Bay County for going on eleven years now and moments like this never got any easier. It made a good cigar taste lousy.

Bart Millen started to go to his friend but Tatum held him back. "Let him be, for a minute. He's got to make his peace with what's happened."

Bart nodded. "I couldn't help noticing those papers in your hand."

"Newspaper photos. Real old. They were tacked to Miss Raines' face and body."

"Mind if I see them?"

Tatum regarded him curiously as he gingerly held the pictures up to the light. He saw the lines around Millen's mouth tighten perceptibly. "You seen these before?"

Bart handed them back. "Not these. Some others like them."

Tatum stuffed the photos into an envelope and put it in his pocket. He chewed on the unlit Panatela in the corner of his mouth and absentmindedly fingered the old pox sores on his neck. "You'll explain what you mean, I hope?"

Bart Millen drew him aside, away from Guy Dunn. They stood with their backs to the tree stump. "Sarah and I have been getting little gifts in the mail for the past few weeks."

"Gifts? What kind of gifts?"

"Well, not exactly birthday gifts. More like little statues. Figurines. Horrible little things. Wooden dolls carved and lacquered to look like some old ship captains. Often, with a snake or a serpent or some kind of dragon wrapped around it."

"So?"

"So, these little statuettes have started coming with old newspaper photos attached to them lately. Photos of me, fifteen years ago. After the Tulsa went down. Pictures of the press conferences and the receptions the surviving crew got. Headlines too. And almost all of them have me somewhere in the picture, usually right in the middle."

Tatum pulled the photos out again and squinted at them. He let Bart have a look. After a minute, he nodded and pointed to a figure right of center.

Tatum looked harder. "That you?"

Bart nodded. "See the caption? 'Tulsa Survivors Feted at D.C. Optimists Club.' There's Nick Pike, Radioman First Class. Calvin March, one of our Machinist's Mates. Bernie Filipchuk. All the survivors. It's just like the pictures we've been getting in the mail."

"You haven't reported anything?"

Bart shrugged. "What could we report—that we're getting crank letters?"

Tatum studied the pictures for a few minutes. "Someone knew your wife would be here. You too. Someone wanted you to see this."

"It looks that way. Sarah's already at her wit's end now, as it is, with what's been happening lately. Wally's boat wrecking. The statuettes. The pictures. Now this."

"Do you stay in contact with these men?"

Bart shrugged. "Some. We're not real close buddies though. Most of us would just like to forget."

Bart looked away. Guy Dunn was standing by the closet door, hands on hips, looking at something. "I thought about that, Verne, but it doesn't wash. I think I know these men well enough to say that. I'll find out for sure in a few weeks anyway."

"How's that?"

"The Navy's re-opening the investigation. I got the word a week ago. New evidence, so they say. I'll believe it when I see it."

Tatum was taking it all in with a frown. He hitched up his pants and rummaged through his pockets for a match before he realized he was trying to stop smoking. He grunted annoyance. "I want you to bring me one of those statue things you been getting. And the pictures."

"We've been throwing them away."

"Don't matter. Bring me what you have. I want a good look at them. Might be we can send it on to the State Crime Lab."

"I'll dig one out. What now?"

Tatum took a deep breath. "Well, me and Rudy got us some digging to do ourselves. I still think it was that AWOL Marine. I'd best get cracking before the Mayor Himself descends on my office with claws clicking and teeth gnashing. That reporter'll have the story all over the County in no time. Oh, and I'd like your wife to come down to the station for a full statement, if you don't mind."

"We'll follow you in."

Tatum said no more. He left the cottage and went to talk again with Dr. Macklin. Bart stood where he was for a while, then finally went over to stand next to Guy. They were quiet for five minutes, Guy simply staring bleakly at the white chalk outline of his wife's body, drawn in by one of the policeman. Bart finally broke the silence.

"It's a crappy world."

Guy cleared his throat, started to speak, but stopped. The words were caught.

"Why don't we go have a drink?" Bart suggested. "Or maybe a good sweaty workout? What do you say?"

When he spoke, his voice was weak and thin. "Nice try. Thanks anyway. I've got to go up to the Clinic with Macklin." He took a deep breath. "And break the news to the kids."

"Yeah." Silence. "Where are they?"

"At the base. I didn't want them in the house alone."

"Guy--?"

"Yeah?"

"I keep thinking—"

"About what?"

Bart jammed his hands in his pockets. He didn't like the way the room smelled. Sour, a little oily. "About how maybe it's because of me that this happened."

Guy Dunn looked at him for the first time. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm not sure. But those pictures—"

"Some crank. Don't even think it."

How can I keep from thinking it? "I mean it. Somebody out there is trying to get at me and Sarah. And he or she or it or they or whoever , is going at it by going through our friends and neighbors. It's becoming a pattern."

"Maybe you do need that drink," Guy said.

"I'm serious."

"It has to be that Lattimore kid, Bart. We already know he's a mental case."

"Okay. But what about what Kim saw in our basement? Did the kid do that? And what about last Saturday? Wally Voss' boat. Tatum's virtually certain it was tampered with."

"So what's the connection?"

Bart poked himself in the chest with a finger. "Me. My family. I'm good friends with the Vosses and I was on that boat when we nearly bought the farm. See the pattern?"

"You're dreaming. Why would anyone stalk you by going through your friends?"

"Fear," Bart said. "Intimidation. To make us feel encircled. To turn the town against us. And the Post is playing right into their hands."

Guy had seen enough of the closet. He was wise to Bart's tactics, trying to get his mind off Denise, off what had happened, but he was grateful nonetheless. They walked outside, into bright sunshine.

"So who's behind it? Tell me that."

Bart shrugged. "I don't know. But I have an idea. No proof, just some suspicions."

They stopped at the rear end of the ambulance. "Would you like to enlighten me?"

"Give me time, Guy. I need to do a little private checking on my own first."

"Okay." They gripped each other's hands tightly. "I know what you're doing, buddy boy. Thanks for trying. I'll see you at the station. I might take you up on that drink later."

"Sure." He watched Guy get into Tatum's patrol car, then went over to comfort Sarah. The Montaines were with her.

The barest outline of an idea was forming in his mind.
Chapter 11

1.

Bart Millen decided not to go home for dinner Monday night but rather to stay in town. That morning he had gathered together all the packages they had received in the mail recently—all the statuettes and newspaper photos and threatening letters. He would take them down to Sheriff Tatum's office after dinner, as Verne had asked. Just getting them out of the house was bound to be an improvement.

He had spent most of the afternoon in his office, attending to paperwork—mostly bills and invoices, plus the advertising campaign they were launching this coming weekend. From time to time, Nell LaCobb or Howard Dilbey would drop in for a brief chat. Bart always forced himself to listen, but he seldom heard what they were saying. He found himself nodding and agreeing automatically.

At twenty minutes to six, Bart decided to call it quits for the day. Kris Voss was in the showroom when he walked in from his office. She was talking with Nell LaCobb on the far side, standing next to a Duncan Phyfe highboy that was on sale. She spied Bart approaching and waved.

"I thought you left at five, Bart," she said. She was dressed in a natty blue and white skirt with a dark blazer today. They kissed and held hands for a moment. Bart took his time admiring her outfit.

"I usually do but I saw this great looking broad in the showroom and I just had to investigate."

"Probably me," Nell said. They all laughed.

Kris' smile faded quickly. "How is Sarah today?"

"She seems to be getting over the shock. She didn't sleep well last night though."

"I'm not surprised," said Kris. "What a terrible thing to have to see. But then, that seems normal around here lately, doesn't it?"

Nell spoke up. "Bayville always gets a little crazy in midsummer. Just ask Sheriff Tatum. Personally, I think it's the mosquitos. They've got some kind of crazy bug they carry around."

Bart glanced at his watch. "You're here awfully late yourself."

"I'm heading over to Hilton Head to pick Wally up. Thought I'd drop by and see if Wonder Woman here had done any more work on Gretchen Odum's bedroom draperies. We can't open up the House of Threads until Lawrence gives us a loan and he won't do that unless we bribe Gretchen with a gift of that pattern she's been drooling over the last two years."

Bart nodded. "Feminine subterfuge."

Kris squeezed his arm. "Twenty-four hours a day."

"Look, I'm eating in town tonight," Bart said. "I've got an appointment at nine. Why don't you two ladies join me? We could really splurge, hit the highlights of the town, really go fancy."

"You're talking about Gable's Cafeteria, I take it?" asked Nell. They laughed.

"I'd love to, Bart, but I'd better be on my way. Wally Boy gets hives if I don't pick him up on time."

"I've got to run myself," Nell said. "But thanks anyway, boss. How come you never asked before?"

Bart squeezed her hand. "Because I see you every day, I guess."

Nell groaned. "God. I'm just like the furniture. See you two." She hitched up her purse and slipped out the side door to the alley where she kept her Volvo parked.

"Let me give you a lift," Kris offered. "Where are you headed?"

"Smokey's, I suppose. I haven't had one of their steaks in ages."

Kris approved. She thought of the little spiral notebook she kept hidden in her vanity at home, stashed in the back of the top drawer. She liked to keep notes in it about interesting people she met. Bart Millen had already filled up three pages.

"Just stay away from their chili. You'll need a drugstore to get over that. Shall we go?"

"Let me give Howard a holler. Where's your car?"

"Right out front in the no parking zone."

Bart grinned. "I'll meet you there."

Kris watched him disappear into the office again. She liked Bart Millen; she always listened with fascination to the stories Nell and Yolanda Dilbey told her when they occasionally met at the grocery store. He was an intriguing man with a military bearing that both amused and attracted her. She often wondered what it might take to break down that wall of pride and self-assurance. I'll ask Sarah her secret someday. It would be fun to find out.

Kris waited in her car for a few minutes. It was just after six; she hoped Wally could wrap up that deal he was working on by the time she got there. She had left Angie at the school to watch the cheerleaders practice and she felt uncomfortable about it. She'd probably be just fine but Kris found herself worrying nonetheless. She had warned her daughter to stay on school grounds. "I'll be back by seven at the latest. When the cheerleaders finish, go watch the baseball game. You sure you don't want to come with me?"

Angie had been adamant about that. "I want to watch the cheerleaders, Mama. I want to be ready for when I can be one."

Kris had relented, feeling bad about it almost immediately. She was far too lenient with the girl; she knew that. But it was a long, boring ride down to Hilton Head anyway and she would be among friends. She saw one of the Millen children out on the playground when she dropped Angie off. It was Kim. "Don't ya'll get into trouble, now," she told her. Angie had scampered off without even a good-bye kiss.

The car door opened and Bart Millen slipped in. She hadn't even seen him come out. "Ready to ride?" she asked. She started the car and pulled out into late rush hour traffic, heading down Washington Street.

Bart said little for a few minutes, so Kris kept the conversation going. He appeared lost in thought.

"I hope Sarah's not giving up the real estate business. Wally has high hopes for her."

Bart was staring out the window, preoccupied. "She's still a little shaken. She needs some time to get over the shock."

"God knows what you must be thinking about Bayville after all this."

Bart shrugged. "It's a comfortable town. I'm sure we'll adjust. We always have."

"You're happy here?"

He nodded. "I think we'd all like to settle in one spot for a while. I know Sarah would. The kids have made a lot of friends too."

Kris waited at the traffic light at Charles Street. The old Palms Restaurant already had a line waiting at its front door. They both smiled at the crowd, mostly older people, regulars. "They sure don't come for the food," she said. "Must be bingo night in the back." She turned at the light. "Speaking of kids, I know my Angie thinks the world of Kim. She's always talking about her, things they do. She likes to hear about your stay in Hawaii."

"I'm not surprised. Kim left her first real love back there. She's still getting over it. What sort of things do they do?"

"Oh, the usual things. You know little girls. She and Kim are evidently good friends with a little black girl that doesn't live too far away. Clarinne Bevins. You know, Boulder's daughter. They've all got vivid imaginations."

"Clarinne—I've heard Kim talk about her."

"I'm not real sure how healthy it is. Maybe I'm just a worrier. Look," she patted Bart's arm, "can I say something? Just between you and me?"

"Sure."

Kris turned them smoothly onto North Street and headed out of the city. They passed the crumbling tabby wall marking the shady grounds of the Holy Bluff Cemetery. The lights at Gaylon's Funeral Home were on. Denise Dunn's funeral would be tomorrow at noon.

"It's really nothing. Something I need to get off my chest."

"About what?"

"About Clarinne Bevins. And Angie. Maybe your Kim too. I happen to know about Clarinne's little dolls. It's crazy really, but I sometimes think that little girl has some kind of influence over Angie. Now, don't laugh. I'm even thinking of asking Boulder to tell not to come by our house anymore. Maybe it's just me. In a way, I kind of resent the way Clarinne can make Angie brighten up and come out of her shell and I can't." She sighed. "Maybe I'm just not a very good mother."

Bart wanted to kiss her for saying that. At least, it's not just me. "I don't think it's that. Clarinne comes over to play with Kim sometimes, too."

"What do you think about her?"

"She's polite. Kind of cute, with those bangs she wears. She seems awfully self-assured for such a little girl. And, "he had to admit, "she does have an effect on Kim. But not on Julie or Dean, so far."

"Kim's pretty quiet, isn't she?"

"She's the loner of the family. I don't know where she gets it from."

"Angie's the same way. I never know what she's thinking. She doesn't confide in me anymore, not since she got that scare by the side of Delta Road. She sticks to her father now. And he's never around."

Bart saw the neon sign of Smokey's coming up: a cowboy lassoing a juicy steak. "I think we're both worrying about nothing, if you ask me. Kids have their little cliques and secret clubs. We're not supposed to understand them—that's the whole idea."

Kris pulled up to the curb. "I guess you're right. It's just that Angie's been acting so strangely lately. She takes a lot of baths. Three or four a day. That's not like her at all. She doesn't seem to get sleepy at night. She argues about staying up late. She's restless. Distant." Kris twisted in the seat to face him. "My daughter and I are growing apart and I don't know what to do about it."

Bart opened the door. "Give her some space and let her alone for a while. If she doesn't grow out of it, then maybe you should get her a checkup. We had the same problem with Kim a few weeks ago. Even took her to the doctor."

"And?"

"Nothing. She was perfectly healthy."

Kris smiled meekly. "You're probably right. I just feels...funny, I don't know, wrong, that's my own daughter, my only child, won't pay me any attention." She hung her head. "Now that does sound childish, doesn't it? I need a good talking to."

"Happy to oblige." He got out and shut the door, then leaned in through the open window. "Thanks for the lift. Say hello to your husband for me. Tell him I'll get Sarah back together for him. And—" he reached for Kris' hand and squeezed it. "Don't worry, okay? I think you make a great mother."

She blushed slightly. "Thanks."

They said good-bye and Bart stood at the curb, watching as the Ford disappeared down the road. It was all very disturbing, what she had said. Maybe there's some kind of virus going around. He decided to give it some more thought over a thick steak with mushrooms and a beer.

Smokey's was crowded for dinner. The bar was shaped like a horseshoe and packed shoulder to shoulder with truckers and fishermen and businessmen in three-piece suits. A house band of stout T-shirted fiddlers was twanging its way through a crude rendition of "The Devil Went Down to Georgia." Bart found himself an unoccupied booth and ordered from the menu. He downed the first beer in three swallows.

Dinner was uneventful and he got up and paid the bill, leaving a small tip. A brisk walk outside would feel good. He shoved his way around a jam-up at the door and out into the warm, fragrant air outside. The smell of honeysuckle and turpentine was strong. The river wasn't far away.

On impulse, he decided to walk to the Sheriff's office. He had to do some physical, something to work off the apprehension. When he'd had a sub around him, he'd often faced the same problem. The solution back then was inspections. He'd walked the path from Officers' Country to the Reactor Room on Tulsa a thousand times, peering into every crook and crevice a nuclear boat had to offer. No wonder the men liked to call him "The Clerk." But you didn't leave details hanging when you skippered a craft like that.

Walking felt good and he soon fell into a vigorous gait, hiking up the side of Highway 281 toward the city. Across the river, he could see the pile of bricks known as Presser Homes. He wondered who, if anybody, lived there.

He found himself walking up the sidewalk and into the nearly dark County Annex Building before he realized it. In the lobby, he studied the directory for a moment, wondering if Tatum would even be in at this hour. What kind of hours did a Sheriff keep anyway? Probably the same as a sub skipper.

He rode the elevator up to the third floor and went looking for the Sheriff's Department. He found it easily enough. The door was open.

He stepped inside. There was a large room, divided in half by a counter and glass partition, with ports for clerks to take complaints and handle papers. It reminded him of a bank. Metal folding chairs and ragged benches lined the walls of the waiting area. The room seemed deserted but a light shone from one of the offices in the rear.

"Anybody in?" Bart called out. He heard papers rustling in the office.

"In the back!" came a voice. It was Tatum. "Who's there?"

"Bart Millen. We had an appointment, remember?" He found a small gate between the wall and the counter and pulled at it. It rattled. Locked. "How do I get back there?"

Tatum coughed. "Just a minute. I'll let you in."

Bart waited patiently for a few minutes. Presently, the Sheriff appeared from his office, hitching up his pants. A half-chewed cigar protruded from his mouth. Bart noticed for the first time that he walked with a slight limp.

Tatum's eyes twinkled. "Glad to see you, son. What brings you to the cuckoo's nest this time of night?"

Bart showed him the grocery sack full of statuettes. "Thought I'd drop this by, like you asked."

Tatum escorted him back to his office. "Excuse the mess. As you know, the law never sleeps." He chuckled at his own joke, slapping Millen on the back. "Sit, sit. You want some coffee?"

"What's it taste like?"

"Asphalt." Tatum grinned. Bart noticed that he was careful to shut the file folder that had been open on his desk. He tried reading the label upside down. But Tatum covered that too, leaning forward on his beefy forearms. He slurped his own coffee and made a face.

"How's progress on the murders?"

Tatum grunted and leaned back in his chair. It squeaked. "How high is high? I'm still waiting for those prints to be analyzed by the State. This one's going to be a tough nut to crack." He took out his cigar and examined it for a moment. Then he stuck it in the side of his mouth and set to gnawing contentedly on it. "Ain't got no motive. Ain't got no suspect, except for that AWOL Marine. No evidence to speak of, but for the prints and they ain't so hot. Nothing." He shrugged in frustration.

"What about the boat accident last week?"

Tatum squinted at him in mock disgust. "You the new DA or something? I doubt we'll ever lick that one. You and I both know it was no accident. Only the Lord knows who did it. And why."

I wonder, Bart thought. "Is it always this exciting around Bayville in the summer?"

Tatum snorted. His rubbed his eyes wearily. "We're just lucky this year, I guess. Usually, the place would bore you to tears. 'Course, we got some good duck hunting around. I shot me a mess of mallard up on Lake Moultrie last fall." He folded his arms. "Damn fine day that was. But...Ginny hates duck, so I had to give 'em away. You like to hunt?"

"A little," Bart said.

Tatum studied his visitor for a moment. The folds of his face sagged like an old hound's. "Mind if I ask you a question, Mr. Millen? Neighborly like."

"Bart, please. Fire away."

Tatum steepled his fingers, still chewing on the cigar. "Well, it's just that I'm a bit curious about you. Your background and all. I recollect reading things in the papers a few years back, when you had that sub go down. I was just wondering what it was like."

Bart settled back in his chair. Over the years, he had been asked the same question more times than he cared to remember. He'd managed to work up a sanitized version of the truth that spilled out automatically whenever the moment required it. Tatum sat there spellbound, munching on his cigar, while Bart gave him the particulars.

"It wasn't my idea of a fun day," he added at the end. "We were lucky. Damn lucky. The survivors, I mean."

Tatum considered the story thoughtfully. "And you say six other men got out, besides you?"

"That's right. We also had two other men outside Tulsa, scuba divers, trying to run some lines to Cheyenne. Something to steady us, maybe rig a makeshift diving bell to transfer men. We didn't think we could wait for the real diving bells to get there."

"And they didn't make it out?"

"Their bodies were never found. The Navy presumed they were both dragged down when Tulsa slid off the ledge." His face clouded. Two good men. My Exec, Nathan Caden, and a Torpedoman's Mate, Marty Reitz. It took a lot of guts to do what they did."

Tatum nodded his understanding. "Do the survivors keep in touch with each other?"

"I don't know. I hear from the Chief, Denny Wilcox, every so often. Not so much from the others. Why?"

"Just curious. Camaraderie, maybe. Although, I guess you'd just as soon forget about it."

"That's probably impossible. This reporter, Ham Dodd, with the Post wants to write a book about me. He wants to collaborate on a first person account. He even talks about a movie."

"You have to admit it's a dramatic story."

"It is but just between you and me, Sheriff, I've always felt a little guilty about being one of the survivors. When six men out of a hundred and twenty survive and one of them is the captain—" he shrugged, shaking his head. "Some of the widows took it hard. There was even a Tulsa Widows Club for a while. I heard they used to get together and set fire to stacks of newspaper articles featuring me. But that was some years ago. Time seems to have dulled the ache, for all of us."

Tatum was flicking some ashes off his shirt. "Maybe not for all."

Bart leveled a hard gaze at him. "You said that before. You really think one of the Tulsa survivors might be behind all this?"

"Don't you? How well do you know these six men? Did you get along okay on that sub?"

"I was the skipper. They had to get along with me."

"You might have rubbed one of them the wrong way. Some old grudge, an imagined wrong, nursed all these years. That's a volatile mixture, Mr. Millen."

"It's hard to believe. I suppose it's possible though. Why...I couldn't say."

"Revenge, maybe. Extortion. One of these men resents all the publicity you got. Motive's no problem. The real question is who. And where does he strike next? Let me see those figurines you've been getting."

Bart dug into the sack. "This one's not a figurine but something else. Just as odd." He pulled out a tiny stitched bag. "My son Dean gave it to me the other day. He said it must have been left behind when that crazy man with the snakes broke into our place. He found it in Kim's room."

Tatum leaned forward, the chair protesting his shifting weight. He rolled the bag around in his hand. "Kim's room, huh?"

"That's right. What is it?"

Tatum whipped out a pocket knife and slit the bag along its side. Yellow powder and bits of leaves and bark poured out onto his desk. Lying in the middle of the heap of powder was a tiny figurine, the English captain again. Tatum held it up to the light.

Bart's mouth dropped open. "I'll be damned."

Tatum probed the mound of powder, separating the bark and leaves from the other substances. "Owl feathers," he muttered, pushing them aside. "Pieces of bone. Snake skin. Hair. This is what the root doctors would call a gris-gris. A protective amulet." He smiled faintly. "Your burglar must be sorry he dropped this."

"You believe in this root business?"

Tatum looked up. Night had darkened the windows and the pool of light from the desk lamp made his pock marks seem to come alive. "That's a hard question to answer, Mr. Millen. Why?"

Bart shrugged. "It's just a bunch of mumbo-jumbo. I didn't think anybody really took it seriously."

Tatum examined the craftsmanship of the Little Captain more closely. It didn't seem to bear the marks of Dr. Spider's handiwork. "A lot of people do. Many of them very intelligent."

"Do you?"

Tatum toyed with the contents of the bag on his desk, smoothing them out and rebuilding them into little hills. "In a lot of ways, it is mumbo-jumbo. It's a neat little scam, a racket if you will, no better than any other quack or con artist. I been here in Bay County most of my life and I've heard tell of all kinds of conjure magic. Now mind you, as a rational man with some degree of smarts about him, I'm inclined to discount most of the stories I hear about root. But I'd be less than honest, Mr. Millen, if I didn't admit that a part of me wants to believe it's still possible for the little people of this world to buy a bit of justice and satisfaction from time to time. My Daddy was a butcher and meat packer for the Shueberry Meat Company here in town for a long, long time. Hell, I worked for a cement company before I ever thought of running for Sheriff. When Byron Presser was the Superintendent of Roads and Highways for the County, I went to work in his office and that was my first taste of working in the government. I never have had much money—you can sure see that by looking at me—so in a way, I kind of admire fellows like Dr. Spider and maybe even this Daddy X for how profitable they've made their little scam. It's real clever and I applaud them for it. I even said that to Little Spider—that's Willie Amos—one night over to Cal's Corner. You know what he said back?"

"What?"

Tatum chuckled, remembering. "He told me that root magic was more religion than racket. Dealing with conjure powers makes you either one of two things: extremely careful or dead. That's what he said to me and that's what made me understand how the little people of this county feel about root and why they feel that way. It is a scam in a way, but it's also a service. Maybe Dr. Spider and like him are selling the same thing you find in those self-help books. Power of positive thinking and all that. I know one thing for sure, though. There are people in this county that buy the whole package and for them, it can be very powerful medicine indeed. Maybe that's all that matters."

Bart shifted uneasily in his seat. "You mentioned this Daddy X. There really is a white root doctor?"

A flicker of apprehension crossed Tatum's face. He leaned back and chewed on his cigar more vigorously than ever. "He exists. It's no legend."

"I gather you've run into him before."

"You gather rightly, Mr. Millen. I been trying to shut the good Daddy down for quite some time now."

"Couldn't you use some of this root magic against him?"

Tatum smiled benignly, the way a father would humor his son. "I'd use an atom bomb if I thought it would work. Daddy X is a cagey sort of fellow. He doesn't respond like your normal root doctor would. You know about the feud between Dr. Spider and the Daddy?"

"I've heard pieces of it. It's been going on for years, hasn't it?"

Tatum nodded. "Only this ain't the same Daddy X that terrorized these parts in the Thirties. This one is different."

"What makes you think that?"

"I chat with Dr. Spider from time to time. He tells me the Alligator Man's got some new tools."

Bart laughed. "Alligator Man. I've heard Kim and Kevin Dunn talking about that. I thought you'd be a bit old for stories like that."

Tatum regarded his visitor coldly. He heaved himself out of his chair and walked over to the window, parting the blinds to look out. "I didn't say I buy the whole legend. According to all the kids, the Alligator Man, or Daddy X, if you like, can change himself from a man to a gator and back again. He can do that to his enemies, so the tale goes. I grew up hearing things like that." He turned around and came back to his desk, hovering over it, rearranging the papers. "But it's a kid's tale. Daddy X is as human as you and me. And sicker than my poor tomato plants. From what Dr. Spider has told me, this Daddy is a newcomer, relatively speaking. A conjure man from out of town who settled here about ten years ago and just took up the legend. Worked on it a little bit." He ground his teeth angrily and the cigar fell out of his mouth. "He's been terrorizing the county ever since."

Bart stood up too. "You think this Daddy X is behind these accidents? You think he murdered Shelley Raines and Denise Dunn?"

They were facing each other across the desk now. "I do. I think he may be behind those letters and statues you been getting too. What I'd like to know is why."

"Me too," Bart admitted. He jammed his hands in his pockets. "it's getting annoying."

"My guess is that's what he wants. Root's in the mind, Mr. Millen, and that's where you're going to have to fight this war."

"The casualties are mounting, Sheriff. What do I do? What do I tell my wife? My friends and neighbors? You saw the look on Guy Dunn's face last Sunday. He didn't say anything but he didn't have to. He might be too civil to say it but there's a part of him that wants to blame me for what happened. Especially after he saw those newspaper photos. I rode over here with Kris Voss, by the way. She's been having trouble disciplining her daughter. She didn't say it in so many words but I got the impression she thinks my children are responsible for it. How do I fight that, Sheriff?"

Tatum pursed his lips and stared past Bart to the door. The room was deathly still.

"I don't know, Mr. Millen. I really don't know."

2.

The highway was a dark ribbon of asphalt, tunneling through the pine trees, for the most part deserted, and Kris Voss found herself humming an old tune from the Fifties to keep herself company. It was cloudy out, muggy and oppressive, and if she closed her eyes, she could easily imagine herself floating through an endless pipe, just her and the crickets and the screech owls, rocketing along to nowhere. She switched on the radio so she could have the pleasure of another voice. A human voice.

She hoped it wouldn't be long before she would be able to quit her job as a receptionist at P & W and go into business for herself. She'd have the biggest time marching into Drew Purvis' office when that day came and poke her face right in that pig's nose of his, telling him she would be leaving and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. She could even imagine how he'd react and that was the delicious part of the fantasy. He'd sit there mopping his florid face with that stupid monogrammed handkerchief of his, grease just rolling off his little moustache, stuttering mad, eyes bulging. And she's just smile so sweetly at him and turn around and stalk out. Kris giggled at the thought.

Of course, none of it would come true if Nell LaCobb didn't get a move in and finish up those drapes for Gretchen Odum.

Kris drove on. She glanced down at the speedometer. Up to eighty now and gliding smooth. She wanted to fly on the ride down. Wally was a poor passenger and they'd have to do the speed limit coming back. He'd get sick otherwise.

She passed through a scattering of small houses, shacks most of them, with rusting tin roofs and sagging porches. It was getting darker by the minute and she had to punch the brakes to keep from hitting a dog that darted out into the road. Damn animal, she muttered to herself. She whipped past a gas station with a single pump. Even the Coca-Cola sign was dark. She turned up the radio a notch to hear the news.

The baseball strike was in its third week, no sign of any progress. Something about the space shuttle. President Reagan was lecturing about selling planes to Saudi Arabia. Video games were bad for teenagers' eyes. In Atlanta, the child killings seemed to have stopped.

In Bayville, they go on, she thought. She glanced up in her rear view mirror. A pair of lights was flashing on and off. Damn truck, she grumbled. The lights swelled in her mirror until she could see her own shadow on the dashboard. Pass me if you're in such a big hurry. She tapped her brakes and slowed.

The truck pulled out and thundered by, rocking her in its backwash. She blinked her own lights at his tail, out of anger, but he pulled in ahead of her and sped down the highway oblivious to the signal. She shook her head.

She almost didn't see the children in time.

She had been watching the truck rumbling off in the distance, taking up most of the center of the road, shaking her head in disbelief, when a group of children seemed to materialize out of nowhere, and step out into the road right in front of her.

She swerved instantly, pumping the brakes, and the car squirreled sideways on some sand before she was able to get it straightened out again. She glanced up in her mirror.

That looks like Angie.

She blinked hard at the face dwindling behind in the mirror. Curly brown hair. Round cheeks. Crooked smile. It couldn't be....

She slammed on the brakes and nearly skidded off the highway into a ditch. The right front wheel hung free when she came to a stop and the car rocked precariously on its muddy perch, but she paid it no attention. She jumped out of the car and stood in the middle of the road, peering back into the darkness.

"Angie?" She could just barely see the group now, drifting across the road toward a patch of thick brambles on the other side. She squinted, letting her eyes adjust to the dark. She counted five in all, maybe six. She could have sworn that one of them was her own daughter.

"Angie? Is that you?"

The children paid no attention.

Kris took a deep breath. Get a hold of yourself, girl. She started walking in their direction, aware of how loud the gravel crunched under her shoes. She broke into a trot when the children reached the other side of the road and disappeared into the woods.

"Angie—come here this minute!" It was just like her to act like she hadn't heard. She ran a little faster.

At the spot where she thought they had slipped into the woods, she stopped to catch her breath. One of her high heels had broken off, so she took her shoes off and decided to go barefooted. This is silly. That can't be Angie. There was no way her daughter could be halfway to Hilton Head this time of night. She had left her back at the school grounds.

Hadn't she?

Kris took a few tentative steps into the woods, jumping across a gully and scrambling for balance. She clung to a low-hanging limb of a tree and strained to find them. Something rustled just ahead and she made her way deeper into the woods, coming to rest by a stubby palmetto. Through its prickly limbs, she caught a glimpse of the children, gliding through the trees. She swallowed hard.

Some of them didn't look like children at all. In the dim light it was hard to tell but she could have sworn some of them weren't even human. They're wearing masks, she told herself. How else to explain what she saw?

She blinked her eyes. Her heart was racing and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle.

I am seeing things.

There was a vague reptilian look in the face of one of the children.

"Angie?" Kris stood up, brushing aside palmetto leaves, cutting her fingers on the sharp edges. She sucked at the wound, tasting blood. My God, that's my daughter with those things.

The children vanished into a bank of swamp fog. Kris swallowed hard and plunged into the woods after them.

The footing was bad and she stumbled into one pool of muck after another, often sinking up to her knees. She tore her skirt on the thorns of a wild blackberry bush and managed to twist her ankle getting free. The mist was thick and getting thicker; she could feel it stinging her face, but she pressed on, half-blinded by sweat and dried blood, mosquitos and gnats speckling her face every step of the way. She prayed she didn't stumble across a snake in the undergrowth.

She followed the children for what seemed like hours. At times, she thought she had lost them. She had only the faint rustling of leaves and branches somewhere ahead to guide her; she homed to that sound and tried to shut out all else. Something dark and furry scuttled across her path just in front of her. She stopped, heart pounding, a shiver gripping her neck. Whatever it had been, it disappeared quickly into the brush. Hard, brittle eyes gleamed at her from a distance.

She went on.

From time to time, she had to stop to get her breath. If anything, the woods were getting thicker, wilder, the brush and vines more tangled. The night was cloudy but she could smell the gummy odor of swamp water nearby. A breeze carried other smells to her as she sagged against an oak, massaging her bruised feet. A musky odor, strong and feral. A far away splash got her moving again.

She soon realized that she was lost. She thought to stop and try to figure out where she was, but she couldn't. At least, when she was moving, the sounds of her own passage through the trees masked other sounds, sounds she would just as soon not hear. She strained for some glimpse of the children but there was nothing. She knew it had been many minutes since she had heard anything but her own ragged breathing. She would have to stop soon.

A sharp crack startled her. It came from behind and she froze, listening, feeling the night, tasting mosquitos on her tongue. Nothing else. Just a crack. She wasn't sure she had heard it. Damn it, I did hear it. She listened a few moments longer, silently hoping it wouldn't come again.

She no longer had any idea where she was, or how to find her way out. She stumbled across a patch of perfectly still, tawny brown water, falling forward to her hands and knees. The bottom was thick with ooze and she scrambled back to her feet in disgust. She half lunged, half paddled her way to firmer ground and slumped heavily into a bed of fat, glistening leaves. Her face was puffy from being swatted by low hanging branches and her knees ached. She tried to take stock of the situation.

A fleeting image passed into her mind and Kris fought to bury it. She would find a way out of these woods before that happened. She thought she had been traveling for close to half an hour, at the least. How far am I from the road? She raised up on her elbows, hoping to hear the welcome sound of highway traffic. But there was nothing. Only the woods answered. She sank back.

She was no longer sure it had been Angie she had seen. This is stupid. She forced herself to remain calm, to think damn it! Try to reason your way out of this. One thing was for sure. If she didn't show up at Wally's office on time, he'd be fuming mad. Maybe he would have the sense to call the police. They'd spot her car beside the road, send in teams of men to hunt her down, they'd have her out of here in no time. She listened again, for anything. Nothing.

No sense feeling sorry for yourself.

She dragged herself up and looked around. As far as she could determine, the woods stretched equally as far in all directions. She knew she was near swamp water; the smell was stronger than ever now. Hope I don't fall in, she thought. "I might see Angie's Alligator Man." She chuckled, out loud. Angie wouldn't think it was so funny. She was more certain than ever that she had imagined her daughter in that group of children. Angie was scared to death of the woods.

The problem was how to determine where she was. Which way to go? She looked around, puzzled. She wasn't even sure which way she had come. Onward, said the man. She parted a veil of green moss dangling from a withered oak tree and set off.

It was only gradually that she became aware of being followed. At first, there was only a suspicion, a nagging fear prompted by odd snaps and cracks of twigs in the brush behind her. For a time, she laughed at it, out loud, more to dispel her own fears than anything else. This really is silly, she muttered under her breath. Then she realized she had been clenching her teeth.

She knew she was growing tired. The distant rustle of leaves, which she had once attributed to the children, then to the stirring of a mild sea breeze, slowly evolved into something more like voices, hushed, whispered, drifting in and out of the trees like mosquito clouds, barely audible, yet not so faint as to be ignored. It was irritating. She could almost...but not quite...and then they would melt back into the din of the forest, absorbed in the buzz and screech of the night world.

Kris quickened her pace, preferring not to linger any longer than necessary. It was true that alligators and snakes and other unwholesome creatures prowled these woods; she had no desire to meet one. Prudence demanded that she keep moving. Sooner or later, she would come to a road or something.

She was being stalked. She knew it now, beyond any doubt. The sounds were no longer faint rustlings in the distance. The tread of feet was audible, and growing louder. She broke into a run, thrashing aside vines and limbs, breathing harder, her eyes nearly swollen shut. Voices swirled around her, becoming words, words she did not know, alien words booming in the trees around her. She fought her way through a thicket of elderberry stems and ran headlong into a body.

She stopped short, a scream caught in the back of her throat, and stared in horror at the sight.

There, dangling from a stout oak limb in front of her, was a body. A young man, neatly trimmed moustache, short black hair, hanging at the end of a rope. His eyes were still open.

It took several minutes for Kris to realize that the body wasn't human at all. It was a dummy, a wax mannequin, nearly life size, in the shadows of the gloomy copse, so lifelike it made her skin crawl. She shuddered and reached out tentatively to touch its face. The wax was warm. In fact, when she looked closer, she could see that it was melting. Even as she watched, its eyes sagged in the stifling heat, like a little dam bursting. A tiny stream of liquid paraffin dribbled down its face, looking for all the world just like a tear.

The mannequin was nothing but a big candle.

She fled the grove in terror, steps ahead of the thing that was stalking her. In her blind rush through the trees, she could hear it chittering, almost laughing, mocking her flight. Her ears were filled with laughter, wild, maniac's laughter, children giggling. The odor of musk was overpowering. She thought she heard Angie's voice again.

The trees seemed to thin out ahead and Kris dove headlong for the clearing. There were lights, torches smoking, wavering through the branches. People. She could hear them now. Thank God.... She clawed her way through the last remaining screen of brush and vines and stopped short.

She stared in disbelief.

It was a small clearing, thick with the white smoke of guttering torches and tiny statue-like candles, suspended from twine in the lower branches encircling the opening. The ground was soggy but firmer than what she had been running on. An old run-down building, no more than a shack, occupied most of the clearing. An old praise house, no longer in use. Its plank siding was rotting, peeling white paint in a speckle of flakes that looked like errant snowflakes dotting the mud around the foundations. The tin roof on top had rusted through on this side. The eaves sagged and seemed ready to collapse at any moment. The front porch landing was bowed under the weight of the years, nearly to the ground.

There was a tiny cemetery on the other side of the praise house, visible between a pair of chinaberry trees. The air was smoky from the candles and torches and smudge pots, but in the haze, she could clearly see the tombstones jutting up out of the ground at all angles. There were black wreaths draped over many of the stones and, as Kris dared approach a little closer, she saw that the plots were sprinkled with brightly colored shards of glass and chinaware, reflecting the torch light like bits of diamond. Rings of fetishes with leering, painted, blood-red faces, strung together on rope, crowned a few of the markers.

But it was the people that made Kris stop in her tracks.

They were children, most of them. Yet they weren't. She hadn't imagined the sight back at the highway. The color drained from her face.

There were more than a dozen children in the cemetery, sitting on the tombstones, crawling through the mud, slithering over the grass that had sprung up between the plots. Some were more human looking than others but all of them save for two were more reptilian than not in appearance. Their skins were black, horny and scaly, tough hides of armor even at this distance. Their hands and feet were webbed, their legs shortening up to squat limbs rippling with powerful muscles. But the worst part were the faces, for it was there that the varying states of transformation were most apparent. One child, languorously scratching its belly on the edge of a stone marker, was more snake than human, for all intents and purposes. Its head was flat, spade-shaped, with bony ridges for eyes and broad, flaring nostrils that fluttered in the air. It had a tongue that flicked out from time to time, tasting the smells of the night.

The other children were not so far along. Seeing the range of this gruesome evolution made Kris sick and she felt a rising stream of vomit in the back of her throat. She choked back a little cry when one of the children rolled over in the mud to face her.

It was Angie.

She swallowed her fear and wiped her eyes clean. There was a man in the middle of the children, a slightly built man with dense black eyebrows and a fine clump of tousled hair. He wore a black suit with tail, a brilliant red cummerbund and a dusty top hat, and grinned down at her from his perch atop the largest tomb marker. Kris watched as he snapped his fingers and all the children started to gather. Her heart sank when her own daughter went with them. She saw another familiar face among the group. In the background, unchanged, was Kim Millen. Her face was marked in black though, grease lines meant to resemble reptilian scales. She stared blankly at the man in the top hat.

Kris tried her voice. It cracked—her throat was dry and parched.

"Angie. Angie—get down from there. Come with me."

But she didn't move. She gave no sign of even hearing. The man with the top hat just grinned and grinned.

A hand grabbed her ankle and pulled and Kris fell over backward, landing heavily in the dirt. She looked around and caught her breath. More children, a dozen, a score, maybe more. She shuddered at the sight and began crawling away, slithering through the mud. The children slithered after her. She tried to get back to her feet, but they were too quick. She gagged at the smell of cold, scaly skin and pitched headfirst into the ground. Jaws snapped and teeth clicked and she lashed out with her fists. But it was hopeless. A heavy tail stunned her with a short blow to the head.

The children swarmed on top of her prostrate body.
Chapter 12

1.

When Bart Millen pulled into the driveway and eased up into the carport, he was disturbed to see all the outside spotlights on around the house. The front door was open and as he got out of the car and went up the steps, his apprehension grew. He went inside and found Sarah near hysteria, sitting on a sofa in the family room. Dean and Julie were on the floor at her knees, trying to comfort her.

"What is it? What's going on?"

Sarah looked up. Her eyes were red. Her lips trembled. "It's Kim, honey. She's gone—we don't—we can't find her....."She ran a hand through her tangled hair and sniffed. "She didn't come home for dinner and—"

"She went out jogging," Julie said. She patted her mother's arm. "She was supposed to be back by six. But she wasn't."

It was a quarter to ten now.

"Oh, God, Bart, something's happened. I know it. Something bad has—"

He went instantly to her side, sitting on the sofa next to her, hugging her hard. "Did you call the Sheriff? Have you looked for her at all?"

Numbly, she nodded yes to both questions. "We found something. In her room." She shuddered and buried her head in his chest. "It was grisly."

"It was a hand, Daddy," said Dean. "That hand."

"What are you talking about?"

"Come on, I'll show you."

"Dean, don't—" Sarah didn't want to let go. She clutched Bart's hand for a moment, pleading with her eyes. "What's happened to my baby--"

Bart squeezed her hand and gently extricated himself. "I'll only be a moment. Show me what you've got, Deano."

He led him back down the hall to Kim's bedroom. Bart turned on the light and followed his son in.

The room was unchanged, so far as he could tell. Her Kliban cat posters covered the wall and cats of every description and material lined the shelves over her bed and desk—porcelain, wood, brass and wire cats. The clothes in her closet were undisturbed; he didn't notice anything missing. A library book, something called Forbidden Knowledge, lay unopened on her desk. There were no notes that he could see. Her bed was neatly made. At least that hasn't changed.

There was an old cigar box, half wrapped in newspapers, on top of the bedspread.

"There is it," said Dean. Bart heard his son swallow hard; he stayed by the door. "Open it."

Bart went over and did just that.

Inside was a hand, an amputated hand. There was a faint, but still visible tattoo still visible on the back of the palm, a naked lady strutting her stuff. He held the box up to the light.

"Is this some kind of joke?"

"It's real, Daddy. Julie found it in the back of her dresser drawer. Don't you recognize it?"

Bart looked at his son. "No. I don't. Should I?"

"Remember Washington? When those men broke in? One of them that tried to strangle me and Kim had a tattoo on his hand. Just like that one. I still get nightmares about it sometimes."

"Are you sure, son?" He touched the hand experimentally. It felt real enough.

"Sure I'm sure. I wouldn't forget anything like that. When that Mac guy was choking me, I got a real good look at his other hand. The lady was purple and green. She was smiling, just like that one. There was a big hairy mole where her belly button was supposed to be and she had big thighs and big tits and—"

"That's enough, Dean. I get the picture." They had all worked hard to forget that horrible night. Julie and Sarah raped, Kim and Dean nearly drowned in the bathtubs...if he'd been five minutes later getting home.... He carefully put the box down on the bed. If I'd been five minutes earlier, it never would have happened. It made him sick to think that there might yet be a connection between then and now.

"Don't touch that box or anything else in this room," he said. "Come on." They went back to the den and Bart sat himself wearily down at the table by the phone. He dialed the Sheriff's office. He was surprised when Tatum himself came on the line, his voice haggard, just as weary.

"Verne, I think you'd better come over here right away."

Tatum turned the hand over and rolled it back and forth across the table. Sarah stood dry-eyed beside her husband, eyeing the ghastly thing. She would never let her family eat of that table again, no matter that the hand lay on top of several sheets of newspaper.

"Why don't you run through the story for me, right now," Tatum said. He poked at the hand's fingers with the tip of his pocket knife.

Bart was sitting backwards in a kitchen chair, his chin propped up on the edge. "How long before your search party shows up?"

"I told the men to assemble here at eleven. Your daughter can't have gone far, if she was just jogging. Neely's got a few men out there now, cruising the side roads and back lanes."

"Maybe she was picked up," Sarah said. "Maybe she was kidnapped."

Tatum kept his voice as calm and level as he could. "It's possible, of course, but I doubt it. We'll cross that bridge when he come to it. What I want to know is how this—thing—connects with your daughter's disappearance."

"Okay," said Bart. "Honey, get me a beer or something. You want anything, Verne?"

Tatum poked himself in the belly. "Tummy wants. Head says no. Thanks anyway."

Bart took a long draw from the can before starting. "It was in 1975, in early February. I remember it was Monday, too. Cold, snowy, dreary day. Typical for Washington in the winter. I was posted to Naval Intelligence Command, Operations Evaluation Office, in the Pentagon, at the time. I hated it. I was tired when I came home that night, about 6:30."

"The first thing that struck me as odd was that all the lights in our apartment were out. Normally, the downstairs lights would have been on because Sarah would be fixing dinner." He glanced up at his wife; her eyes were closed. Close your ears, too, honey. The memory was planted deep.

"I found the front door unlocked and I knew something was wrong, right away. When I went upstairs and checked the first room I came to, I found out why the flies had been buzzing in my stomach."

"You didn't run into anyone? See anyone?"

Bart shook his head. He felt Sarah's hand slip into his. "The men had left. Apparently, just before I arrived."

"What did you find?"

"In the bathroom, in the rub face down in the water with drapery cords around their necks, were Dean and Kim. A few bubbles were the only sign of life. Then, I heard a groan."

"I went into the bedroom, the big bedroom, and found both Sarah and Julie bound by cord to the bedposts. Naked, bruised, bleeding, semiconscious. They'd both been raped. But at the moment, I was more concerned for Kim and Dean. I administered mouth to mouth resuscitation, going from one to the other, until I was out of breath. That's when the police arrived. It was close, Verne. Damn close."

Tatum continued probing the hand. "Mrs. Millen? You have anything to add?"

Bart squeezed her hand. She seemed to find strength from his grip. Her voice was unsteady, but she never stopped.

"Shortly after 4 p.m. that afternoon, I arrived home after picking up Julie and Kim from school. Dean was with me too. It was snowing lightly when we went in—I remember that. We surprised two burglars pawing their way through all our good china and silverware."

"Can you describe them?"

She nodded emphatically. "I'll never forget them. One man was tall, skinny, bearded with scraggly greasy kind of hair and lots of rings on his fingers. The other guy called him Mac. His partner was slightly shorter, crewcutted, with glasses and a real bullish neck that was always flaming red with some kind of rash. I remember that too. Mac called him Leon."

"Both white men?"

"Yes. For two hours after that, Mac led me around the apartment, with my hands tied and my mouth gagged, making me show him everywhere we had anything of value. Meanwhile, Julie was being...being..." She broke down, unable to finish. Bart hugged her tight.

Tatum cleared his throat. Dean and Julie stood behind their mother, still as statues. "I understand."

Bart ended the tale. "They took turns raping my wife and daughter, right in front of Kim and Dean. Then they strangled them to within an inch of their lives. They left about five minutes before I showed." He ground his teeth at the thought.

Tatum covered the hand with the newspaper. "I'm sorry to have to drag this out all over again." He motioned Dean to come over. Tatum put his arms around the boy's waist. "You're sure this is the same hand, the hand that belonged to Mac?"

Dean nodded.

"It's grisly," said Julie. "Can't we get rid of it?"

"And you say it was in Kim possession?"

Sarah said, "Yes, for God's sake. We found it in her vanity. Do something with it—I can't stand to look at it."

Tatum hastily stuffed it back in the cigar box. "The question is then, how did she come into possession of it? Who gave it to her? And why? What happened to Mac?"

"I hope he's dead," Julie muttered. Her face darkened in anger.

"Well," said Tatum, easing himself out of the kitchen chair, "the obvious person to ask is Kim. We'll just have to find her." He stretched his back and grimaced at the knot of pain. "If you don't mind terribly, Bart, I think I will have a beer. I have a feeling Ginny's going to have to do without me tonight." He snorted at the thought.

The doorbell rang, followed by impatient rapping at the front door.

"I'll get it," Bart said. He went into the living room and opened the door. In the orange glow of the porch light, a haggard Rudy Neely stood nervously sticking his hands in and out of his pockets. "Oh, it's you."

Neely wiped some cheese cracker crumbs from his mouth. "Sheriff still here?"

Bart opened the screen door and let him in. Two other deputies followed. "In the back. Through there."

Tatum appeared at the door. "Anything?"

Neely took off his hat and bowed slightly to Sarah when she came in behind the Sheriff. "No, sir. We cruised all up and down Sandy Creek Road and Delta Road, all the way out to Jephart's Shrimp Bar and the beach. Back toward Tuggle too. Didn't see nothing."

Tatum frowned. "How about that trailer park just this side of the city?"

Another deputy, stocky and swarthy, spoke up. "Even looked in there, Chief. Nobody saw anything that fit the description." His name plate read SUMMERS.

"That ain't the worst of it, Chief," said Neely. "We got a call from Luana back at the station just before we pulled up. Another missing persons report."

"Who?"

"A Mrs. Wally Voss and her daughter Angie. Mr. Voss is at the station right now."

"Kris?" said Sarah. "Oh, God—"

"I just saw her a few hours ago," Bart said. "She drove me from work down to Smokey's."

Tatum scratched his crew-cut wearily. "When did you last see her?"

"Right around six. She dropped by Dilbey's to do a little shopping. She and Nell spoke. Then she offered me a lift to the bar. She told me she was driving down to Hilton Head to pick up Wally at his office."

"You got the details, Rudy?"

"In writing." He produced a small pad that he gave to Tatum. "I got Larry Childress taking his full statement right now. Had to yell at him on the radio to get him out of bed."

Sarah clung to Bart's shoulder. Her eyes were wet. "What's happening to us?"

"I don't know, honey. I don't know."

There was a car pulling into the Millens' driveway. A second one pulled up to the curb in front.

"That'll be our men," Tatum said. He went out and stood on the front porch. Another car, a police cruiser from the Bayville City Police, arrived a few minutes later.

Sarah showed the men in and went to make some more coffee. Bart was glad of the chance to put her to work; she needed something to do to take her mind off worrying. The group assembled in the Millens' living room, sitting where there was room, standing by the TV and the bookshelves. Tatum spread out a dog-eared map on the rug.

Hugh Tatum was there, Verne's brother, scratching a faint knife scar under his right ear. He had just come from the P & W lumber yard with Drew Purvis, who leaned against the wall, studying the Sheriff's map from behind. Guy Dunn had come too, with a couple of flashlights and an offer to recruit more men from the Marine base if they were needed. A half dozen Sheriff's deputies and City policemen completed the group.

Tatum kneeled before the map. "We got us a stinker tonight, men. I thank ya'll for coming out at such a late hour."

"Let's get huntin'," said Hugh. His forehead muscles were already quivering.

Verne ignored him. "Everybody listen up. Now, we got three missing persons. The Millen kid, name of Kim and the two Vosses, Mrs. And Angie, her daughter. We're going to have to do this thing in two parts. Rudy?"

"Right here." He came over and squatted down next to the Sheriff.

"If what you give me is right, then the place to start looking for Mrs. Voss is anywhere between Smokey's and Hilton Head Island."

"That sounds right. According to Childress, Mr. Voss said his daughter was supposed to be at the school, Bayville Junior High. But she ain't there now."

"Okay, here's what you do. I'm putting you in charge of the Voss search. Go down to Smokey's and round up whoever looks sober enough to help. Start your search along these two axes—" he ran his finger along some lines on the map—"that's Highway 21 and Highway 170. Work your way over to the river here and then fan out along any side road or dirt path you see. If that don't turn up anything, we may have to take Colonel Dunn's offer here and deputize a bunch of Marines for a woods search. Lord help us if it comes to that."

"Stay on this side of the river?"

"Right. Let's do this systematic at first, cover the near ground before we go gallivanting all around the County. I'll alert Jim Bugg to help you from the Hilton Head side."

"Got it. I'm on my way." He grabbed up his cap and headed for the door.

"And keep us informed. Go through Childress at the station. See if Luana can stay on for a while, too, while you're at it."

"Will do." Rudy Neely slipped out the door and trotted out to his car. He was gone in seconds.

"All right, men, get down here and take a look. According to Bart here, his daughter usually goes jogging pretty much along this path." He outlined a circular course on the map. Hugh grunted and sat down next to his brother to get a better look.

"How old's the girl?"

"Eleven," Verne told him. "We'll get everybody a picture." He glanced up at Bart, who understood and went rummaging in a drawer nearby for some photos. "We're going to start out on foot, just in this immediate area. Up Sandy Creek Road here, and back down the other way, toward Sweetbranch. Down Delta Road like so—" they were following the tracing of his finger—"and back toward Highway 21. Two groups for the moment. Hugh, you go with Mr. Purvis and take those two." He indicated several of the City policemen. "Bart, you and Mr. Dunn here and the rest of you come with me. We'll start at the beach end of Delta Road and work back toward town. Now, I want ya'll to fan out a little ways into the woods, but not too far, not just yet. Go about a hundred feet or so—we want to make sure she's not alongside the road, in plain view, before we start tramping through the woods. Got that?"

The men murmured their understanding. Privately, Tatum prayed they would find the girl quickly; she was probably off spending the night with a friend, despite what the Millens said, either that or maybe hurt somewhere and unable to move. The longer it took, the harder it would become. He didn't particularly relish the thought of having to drag the woods in the middle of the night.

"What if we don't find her?" asked Drew Purvis. "What then?"

"My baby's out there," said Sarah. "She's out there—I know she is. You've got to find her; you've just got to...." She fought back some tears. Bart held her close.

"Don't you worry none, Mrs. Millen. We got good men here. We'll find her." He turned and glared daggers at Purvis for bringing up a thing like that in front of them. He checked his watch. "It's getting on toward midnight. Let's meet back here in three hours. Hugh, I'll get you a walkie-talkie from the car."

"Don't need no radio," he said. "You'll hear my voice."

"You take it anyway. Save your breath for kissing." Hugh snorted at that and stood up himself. "Mrs. Millen, why don't you get some rest?"

Sarah shook her head. "I can't sleep. Maybe I'll bake a cake or something. My hands won 't stay still."

"One thing you can do for us."

"Anything."

"Stay by that phone. Larry Childress may call from the station."

"I'll write down any messages." She was grateful for the assignment.

"Good." Tatum hitched up his pants and fumbled in his pockets for a cigar. He swore when he realized he was out. "All right, men, let's go hunting."

Sarah held the door for him and watched them separate into two groups, heading off down the road. The dark swallowed them in minutes and only their voices carried in the humid night air. Please, God, don't let anything happen to my child. She felt a chill in spite of the oppressive heat. She went back inside to get away from the mosquitos.

They found no sign of Kim on their first trip down the road to the beach and Jephart's Bar and Bart grew more and more discouraged as they spread out into the woods coming back. They'd seen nothing along the shores beyond the Jephart's parking lot, nothing but tire tracks in the sand and the footprints of fishermen who had spent the day casting for bluefish. They said little on the long trek back toward Sandy Creek.

Bart stationed himself a few dozen yards into the woods on the south side of Delta Road, sweeping his flashlight back and forth across the dirt and brush. The ground was thick with pine needles and dead branches and he managed to twist his ankle in a gopher hole, leaning to play some light on the other side of a rotted-out log. He saw nothing, no sign that Kim or anyone had ever come this way. Still, they trudged on back toward town, methodically sweeping out larger and larger circles of ground away from the road.

Two hours later, they had traversed the entire length of Delta Road and most of the woods to within several hundred yards of either side, without success. Guy Dunn had uncovered a pair of dingy coveralls stashed underneath some bushes but nothing else. Bart's flashlight had finally given out and he had fashioned himself a prodding stick out of a twisted oak limb, to probe the brush with.

They found no sign of Kim at all.

Tatum called a halt to the search for a while. One of the deputies, a chubby fellow named Castles, invited them to stop by his cottage, just on the other side of the intersection with Highway 21. The men were grateful and Castles had to apologize constantly for the mess in the kitchen. His wife grumbled at having to make coffee for five dirty men in the small hours of the morning.

"What now, Sheriff?" Bart asked, sipping cautiously at the edge of a steaming cup.

Tatum rubbed his eyes wearily; his face was red with the exertion and bathed in sweat. He sank back in the chair and frowned, slowly turning the coffee cup round and round in its saucer.

"You think your daughter would wander off into the woods? Deeper, I mean."

Bart shrugged. "She knows better. She never jogged anywhere but up and down Delta. Maybe a few side streets, but never into the woods. I just can't figure it."

"I think she was picked up," Castles ventured. His wife had lain her head on his shoulders; she was already snoring.

Tatum grumbled. "Maybe. We don't know that."

"We need more men," said Guy Dunn. "It's hopeless otherwise."

"How quickly could you get a couple of platoons out here?" Tatum asked.

Guy thought. "A few hours, I guess. It'd take that long to muster the men, assemble gear, do the paperwork, that sort of thing."

"Do it," Tatum said. He checked his watch while Guy made a few phone calls. "I think the next best thing we can do until they show up is take a hike down to Sweetbranch. Somebody down there might have seen her. They know these woods better than any of us."

"We could drive it in five minutes," Castles said.

Tatum shook his head. "We'd miss too much ground in a car. You know that old cow path that runs between Sweetbranch and Tuggle, the one that everyone uses for a dump?"

Castles nodded. "I thought that thing was buried in weeds and kudzu by now."

"It is, mostly. But it's still useable, if you can stand the smell. I think we'll use that, sort of spread out along an arc from that path."

"Any particular reason?"

"The ground gets pretty swampy between that path and the gravel road. I doubt if the girl went very far into those woods. At least, I hope not."

They rested a few more minutes, with Mrs. Castles groggily serving sandwiches and more coffee, then set off in search of the dirt lane that Tatum had spoken of. Finding it wasn't easy; only Guy Dunn noticed the beaten-down leaves beside the highway. "Survival training," he muttered, as he shone his flashlight on the arch of vines that framed the path. They studied the fresh bicycle marks in the dirt.

"Somebody's been this way recently," Tatum said. He plunged into the woods, the others following closely.

They spread out to intervals of about ten feet. The bush was thick, clogged with tall weeds and sawgrass. Bart poked and probed with his stick, leery of encountering a nest of rattlers, but determined to press on anyway. Before long, he found himself ankle deep in water and mud. Kim couldn't have come this way. He staggered and stumbled until he found firmer ground. She's going to get a blistering she won't soon forget when I find her.

In the end, the men decided the woods were simply too thick to reconnoiter without more light and a few machetes. They reassembled in single file and followed Sheriff Tatum along the path, still calling Kim by name, playing their flashlights into the undergrowth, pushing aside low-hanging branches, kicking at limbs and logs that littered the path. They found nothing. Bart grew more discouraged with each passing moment. He was beginning to think that Castles had been right after all—she had been kidnapped or been picked up hitchhiking. His heart sank at the thought. I raised her to know better than that.

Sweetbranch was dark and quiet when they finally strolled into the clearing. It was no more than a scattering of houses, dilapidated cabins really, with a few rusting cars sitting up on blocks, a weathered old rowboat freshly painted and turned up to dry and a common well in the center of the semi-circle into which most of the cabins had been arranged. A dog began barking as the men made their way into the middle of the village. The boat smelled of strong glue and pine sawdust.

The nearest cabin was still lighted. A dark form rocked back and forth on the front porch, a dim wreath of pipe smoke encircling its head. Lewis Castles hailed the figure.

"That you, Opal Lee?" The men walked up to the steps and stopped. Castles propped his foot up on the top step.

"What you men want this time o'night? It's the plat-eye-prowling time sure as I'm setting here. Ya'll gon' wake the cocks with them lights." She puffed on her pipe some more.

"It's Opal Lee Pitts," Castles told them. Bart Millen realized, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, that the old woman had only one arm. "We're looking for someone, Opal. A little girl, about eleven, thin, long brown shoulder-length hair. You seen her?"

Opal Lee Pitts never did look at them. The rocking chair cracked as she shifted about. "White girl?"

"This man's daughter," Tatum said, patting Bart on the shoulder. "Anybody in Sweetbranch seen her this evening?"

Opal Lee Pitts regarded Bart Millen warily. She counted herself a fairly good judge of a white man's face; she had to be ever since she had started doing business with this tall men from Tampa who came paddling up the river every so often with plastic bags they paid her to keep under her house. She'd learned long ago how to decipher the lines of desperation in a man's face.

"What's your name?"

Bart met her gaze. "Millen. My daughter's Kim."

Opal Lee stopped rocking and sat very still. "Your daughter ain't here. I know your name. I heard it a lot lately. Folks're saying it's you and yours that brung Daddy X back to life." She shook her head slowly. "We don't have nothing to do with that. Sweetbranch is a God-fearing place. You ain't welcome here. Not at all."

"We can come back at first light," Tatum said. "With a lot more men. Search warrants too, Opal. You'd best think about it."

She pondered the Sheriff's words for a moment. The men from Tampa were paying her mightily to keep those bags hidden; a police search would find them in no time. "What you want from me? I tol' you I ain't seen this child."

Tatum stood with his hands on his hips. "I want to know what folks are saying about this man. What's the talk, Opal? What do you know?"

She rubbed her chin and sucked at her pipe. "Only what I hear." She waited, measured the moment and decided to speak the truth. "The good Daddy's after this man. He's done sworn to do a bad trick by him and put him and his family under the ground." She took a deep breath. "You ain't safe here. Not at all. Folks say anyone what helps this man will die by the root theirselves. That's why you ain't welcome here."

Millen started to speak but Tatum cut him short. "Why, Opal? Why is the white ju-ju man after Bart Millen?"

She glared at both of them. "I hear it was a bad trick you done to the good Daddy a long time ago. He's aiming to set matters straight between you." She squinted at Millen. "Just what did you do?"

"As far as I know, nothing," he replied. "I'd like to meet this Daddy X and set him straight. He's making me and my family miserable."

"You don' go slinking a bout looking for the good Daddy," Opal said. "He will find you directly. In his own way. In his own time."

"What about my daughter? What about my wife and children?"

She went back to her pipe. "I hear tell your daughter is already consorting with the Devil."

"You're crazy—"

"Never mind," Tatum waved them both silent. "Opal, I'm leaving now. But I'm sending more men back when it gets light. They're going to scour these woods around the town. If you don't want no trouble, you'd better see they get all the help they need. Kidnapping is a federal crime. If I find someone around here is responsible, you won't even make it to the courtroom. I'll do some justice with these." He held up his hands, clenching the fists.

Opal Lee Pitts snorted. "There's ways of dealing with troublesome outsiders, buckra. Lots of ways. The woods is listening to everything you say, biding their time."

Tatum's face darkened. He'd never been able to intimidate her. "Just remember what I said." He motioned for the men to go. "You may not have the powers you think you do." He left with the others, slipping back into the woods. It was near onto three o'clock and the salt smell of the freshening tide was thick in the air.

They were due to rendezvous back at the Millen house shortly.

Sarah Millen was half asleep on the sofa in the den when the men arrived. Bart stepped softly around her, reaching for a piece of paper by the telephone, a message she had taken for them. But her eyes fluttered open as he picked up the note. She sat up abruptly, rubbing fists in her eyes.

"Kim--?"

"We haven't found her yet, honey. Why don't you lay back down?" Her squeezed her shoulders and neck but she brushed his hand away and sighed.

"I must have dozed off." She saw the note. "That came about an hour ago. Deputy Neely called."

Bart scanned her writing. He gave it to Tatum.

Lewis Castles was dabbing at the sweat around his face and neck with a dingy cloth. "What is it, Sheriff?"

Tatum crumpled the paper and gave it back to Sarah. "Rudy called. They found Mrs. Voss' car."

"Where?"

"Out along Highway 170, the other side of the Broad River. Half in a ditch. She wasn't in it."

"Any signs of a struggle?"

Tatum shook his head and sank into an easy chair by the fireplace. Sarah got up to get something for them to drink. "Not directly. But there were footprints in the sand alongside the road. Several sets of them. Rudy said he was going to round up a few more men and set off into the woods."

"Now?"

"It's better he does. The prints were fresh. They've got Phelan Makin's old hound with them. Maybe they'll find something."

Castles' reply was lost in the grinding sound of a pair of trucks pulling up to the driveway out front. Guy Dunn peeped through the curtains. Two military vans were parked, both disgorging squads of Marines. Dunn dragged himself up and went to the front door. "Finally we get some help."

He pulled the door open and stood face to face with a young sergeant. The boy saluted smartly.

"Thirty-third Infantry Platoon reporting as ordered, sir."

Dunn stepped out onto the porch and surveyed the group. "Have your men assemble in ranks on the driveway, sergeant. Sheriff Tatum will talk to them in a minute."

"Yes, sir. We brought flashlights and radio gear, too, sir."

Dunn sized the young sergeant up. He was alert and eager to please. Looks like a puppy waiting to be let out. "Good, son. Tell your men to stand at ease. You've got a big job ahead of you."

They searched throughout the remainder of the night and well into the next day. Following a pattern that tended generally back toward Bayville, the men fanned out into the woods and blanketed the east bank of the Bayford River as far south as Presser Homes and the still-unfinished Royal Grove Shopping Center and as far north as the Big Bend and the Sexton Road landfill, a few miles beyond the city limits. Guy Dunn and the sergeant had the men sweep the forest in a long line, thirty men abreast, combing the heavy underbrush with poles, rakes, loose branches, anything they could find, prodding, probing, poking and kicking at whatever caught their eye. It was grueling, tedious work and by sun-up, Verne Tatum began to pay heed to the gnawing suspicion that they would never find the girl.

Just before Tuesday noon, he called a halt to the search. Exhausted and sore, the Marines bivouacked on the banks of the river, within view of the city waterfront and the early morning yachtsmen getting their sloops ready. Tatum left Guy Dunn with orders to rest his men well, see if he could borrow some more and when they were ready to go, to begin a house by house canvasing of every home in the area, just in case Kim had holed up inside somewhere.

"I'm going back to the office for a few hours," he said. He clapped Bart Millen on the back. "Why don't you go home and get some rest yourself?"

Millen shook his head. "I'm coming with you. I couldn't sleep now anyway."

Tatum shrugged. "Suit yourself. You'd be better off in the sack though. What about your wife?"

"I'll call her from your place."

Tatum nodded his understanding. "We'll find her, Bart. One way or another, we'll find her."

He left instructions with Guy Dunn to be notified the instant they found anything. Then he and Bart Millen drove back to the County Annex Building in silence.

The Sheriff's Office was busy with activity. Luana Keebler looked up from her desk in the anteroom when Tatum and Millen walked in. Her eyes softened when she saw the haggard look on their faces.

"No luck, huh?" She got up and followed them into Tatum's office, clutching a handful of papers.

Tatum dropped heavily into his chair and leaned back. "It's like she's just vanished, Luana." He closed his eyes.

Bart Millen sank onto a couch by the door, dazed and fatigued.

Luana clucked sympathetically. "How's Sarah taking it?"

Bart stared into space. "Rough. Maybe I should go over there."

Luana dropped the sheaf of papers on Tatum's desk. "You know that inquiry you sent off to Washington, D.C. police the other day? They telexed their reply this morning, while you were out."

Tatum sat upright in his chair. "Let me see that." He rifled through the flimsies for a few minutes, rubbing his chin.

Bart tried to stare through the backs of the pages. "Anything?"

"Well," Tatum paused to extract a cigar from the desk drawer. He tore the wrapping off and poked it into the side of his mouth, unlit. "Says here our friends Mac and Leon—the fellows who broke into your place up0 there-were found dead one morning in April 1975, near the 14th Street bridge. Hacked to death with a knife or something and dumped in the bushes back of a Marriott hotel near the bridge. They confirm that one of the deceased was missing a hand. No suspects, no motives, no arrests. Case closed. Doesn't even say anything here about connecting these jokers to your case."

"That amputated hand is proof enough," Bart said. "I don't think Dean would forget something like that."

Tatum glared at Luana until she got the message and left the office. She frowned at them both as she closed the door. "The question is then: who killed Mac and Leon? And why? They were probably hired to do what they did."

Bart slouched back against the wall. "My guess is Daddy X. But we still don't know who this Daddy X is. Now, he's got Kim."

"You'll probably be getting a ransom note shortly. The good Daddy wants something from you, Bart. We don't know what. But taking your daughter is part of it."

"You're sure it's a kidnapping?"

Tatum spread his hands in frustration. "We haven't found her, have we? She's either run away or been picked up."

Bart stared at the floor. "Or dead."

They said nothing for a few minutes. Bart scuffed at a few dust motes drifting in the shaft of sunlight. Tatum rocked back and forth in his chair. It squeaked.

"We're not beaten yet," he finally said. He stood up and cinched up his belt, pulling out the .45 and spinning the chambers. He stuck the gun back in its holster and reached for his cap.

"Where are we going?"

Tatum rummaged in a desk drawer for a few seconds. He withdrew an object in tissue paper—the gris-gris amulet Daddy X had accidentally left in the Millens' basement. He tucked it in his pocket.

"You are going to go home, my friend. You need some rest and Sarah needs you. That's an order."

"And you?"

Tatum was already directing him out the door. "Something I should have thought of before. I'm going to pay a visit to a fellow named Little Spider. Dr. Spider's son. I've got a feeling he knows some places to look we haven't even thought of."

"You keep me informed," Bart said. "I want to know what's going on."

"I'll drop by your place this afternoon to fill you in. Just keep the faith. Tell Sarah we're closing in, okay?"

Bart nodded but looked dubious. He stuck his hands in his pockets. "Level with me, Verne. It doesn't look good, does it?"

Tatum shrugged. "What can I say? Kim's been missing all night. NO sign, no word, nothing to go on."

"I've heard that if you don't find a missing person within three days, you usually don't find him."

"You hear a lot of things these days, Bart. Odds are she's just visiting friends somewhere, playing hooky, that sort of thing. You know how kids are."

Bart thought about the last time he had disciplined Kim; he couldn't remember what it was for now. "I know. I was just groping for something to put some faith in."

Tatum squeezed his shoulder. "Put your money on Kim getting lonesome for her folks before the day is out. That's a Verne Tatum signed-and-sealed promise."

Bart managed a weak smile. "I'll tell Sarah you said that." He walked over to the stairwell. "Call us at supper time and let us know what's happening."

"Sure."

He turned and disappeared down the stairs. Tatum stood in the doorway for a few moments, thinking. Papa always did say I had a big mouth. He went back to his office, looked in his desk drawer and headed out to pay a visit to Gable's Cafeteria. He was determined to collar Little Spider and drag him into this search if he had to hunt all over the county for him.

Gable's was past the midday dinner rush and Tatum had to wait a few moments at the front doors as a crowd spilled out onto the sidewalk and headed back to work. A short, bearded man ran right into him. It was Ham Dodd.

Dodd squinted up in the bright sunlight at Tatum. His face was flushed red from the heat but he nodded an affable greeting.

"Afternoon, Sheriff. Got any leads on that missing girl case?"

"Nothing for the papers, Dodd." He shifted to step around the reporter but Dodd slid back in front of him. They collided again, this time knocking Dodd's red beret to the pavement. He chuckled and bent down to scoop it up. "In a hurry? Ozelle Bonnard's not at the cash register today. It's Tuesday, remember?"

"I ain't looking for Ozelle, thank you. How's about moving aside before I squash that precious face of yours."

Dodd winced. "My my, we're touchy today. Maybe you'd like to inform my readers why you haven't managed to find this poor child. People are beginning to talk."

Tatum stared down at the man and rubbed his teeth with a forefinger. "Maybe you'd like to inform your readers just why it is you waddle like a woman when you walk."

Dodd turned bright red at the laughter that erupted. His mouth popped open but nothing came out. He jammed his beret on his head and stalked off. Tatum knew it was at best a temporary victory. He went inside.

It was mercifully cool and dark in the main dining room. Dishes clattered as stewards and busboys in white jackets cleaned up the lunch crowd mess. Tatum stood for a moment, next to the cracked statue of Adonis and scanned the room. He grabbed a young busboy as he went whistling by bearing an armload of plates and glasses.

"Willie Amos in here today?"

The boy nodded in the direction of the far windows. "Over to the back."

Tatum grunted thanks and soon found his man, hunched over a plate of chicken wings and greens, slurping some iced tea. He slid into the seat opposite before Willie even looked up.

"Hey, Little Spider."

Willie Amos peered cautiously over the frosty rim of the glass. "What you want, buckra?"

Tatum smothered a grin. Willie Amos acting tough was like Hamilton Dodd taking up wrestling.

"I want your help."

"'bout what?"

Tatum plucked himself a nice-sized wishbone from the assortment on Willie's plate and began munching. He ignored the daggers in the boy's eyes. "'Bout that Millen girl. I want you and some of your people to get to looking for her. You know places I'd never think of. I want Dr. Spider to help find this girl."

"To save your butt from the bogeyman?"

Tatum stopped chewing. "To save your butt from the meat grinder, buster."

They glared at each other for a few moments. Little Spider started chewing again.

"Why would I want to go huntin' for a little lost buckra girl who ain't got sense enough to stay out of trouble?"

"How do you know she's in trouble?"

Willie swallowed audibly and spent a long time delicately wiping his lips with a crumpled napkin.

"I don't. What makes you think I can find her?"

Now we're getting somewhere. "Like I said, you know the woods and the trails around here better than any white man. My men are exhausted. The Mayor's getting antsy. People are grumbling."

Willie forced a thin smile. "They talking about you, ain't they?"

Tatum's face darkened but he swallowed his pride and nodded. "Some. That doesn't bother me so much, Willie. It's the pattern. All these things together. It's frustrating. I have to break the good Daddy once and for all this time. If I don't—" He put the bone down on the table and stared at it. "If I don't, I'm going to resign. I ain't much of a Sheriff if can't protect my people." He took a deep breath and rubbed his crew-cut wearily.

Willie sank back against the chair and stared through the blinds to the street. "Dr. Spider talked like that to me not so long ago. You know that, Sheriff? He tol' me the day of battle was coming and he had to be prepared. I knew from the way he talked that it would be his last battle, victory or not."

"Us old people get like that from time to time." Tatum played with the bone for a moment. "You going to help?"

There was a big sigh. "Looks like I'll have to. I ain't sure but what Papa'll just wind up getting himself killed this time. He don't believe the power's as strong as it used to be. And that's bad, when you don't believe. I see it in you too."

Verne knew he was right. "I got me a lot of scars, that's for sure."

"You know, Sheriff, I swore when I ran away from home a long time ago that there wasn't no way I'd be like my Papa. No sir. I didn't want nothing to do with all that root and hoodoo stuff. I wanted to fly my own way." He snorted and finished off his tea. "Now look at me. Pretending to the throne and grinning all the way. What happens inside to make a man take up what he despises?"

Tatum shook his head. "I'll be damned if I know, Willie. The heart pumps and the blood flows. That's all I know."

Willie chuckled at that. "You're a big fat ape, you know that, Sheriff? Tell me what all you've done lookin' for this chick so far."

Tatum sat back and recited the story, describing the search patterns, where they had looked and what they had found so far.

"Exactly nothing," he muttered, "except for Mrs. Voss' car. It's like they've all vanished. We got a bunch of Marine boots canvassing every house around the city limits right now. But it looks like the search is going to have to expand. You got any bright ideas?"

Willie was thoughtful for a moment. "Maybe. But you'll have to promise me one thing."

"What's that?"

"I'm doing this my way and you're staying out of it." When Tatum looked a little dubious, Willie added, "I got my reasons. Mostly, the men I got in mind to round up don' much like taking orders from the buckra law—any more than they have to. They're good men, boys some of 'em, but they'll do better if you ain't around. Back in the woods, you are about as quiet as a bulldozer, Sheriff. I got me a feeling a little more stealth is called for."

Tatum nodded. "I don't like it but you're right." He yawned. "I could use a bit of sack time. But you keep me informed at regular intervals, Willie. I want to know your status every two hours."

"I ain't carrying no frigging radio back in the woods."

"Then you send me a runner or something. The very instant you find something suspicious, I want to know about it. I don't care if you send it by pigeon."

"Okay, Bossman."

They stood up together and Tatum filched another piece of chicken. He wrapped it in a napkin and stuck it in his shirt pocket. "One more thing." He rummaged in another pocket for the gris-gris amulet that Bart Millen had given him. Willie stepped back when he saw what it was. "Daddy X inadvertently deposited this in the Millens' basement a few weeks ago. I have a feeling he might be wanting it back."

Willie stared with dread at the pouch. "Don't wave that thing at me." He shrank away from it.

"I was hoping you might could flush the good Daddy out with this."

Willie shook his head vehemently. "Sheriff, you'd best stick to your business and leave mine to me. If the white conjure man caught one of my men with that, he'd be a withered old mummy in three days, maybe less. You just keep it with you, okay? Daddy X will find us if he wants to find us."

"Suit yourself. But I got a feeling that where we find this Millen girl, we'll find the good Daddy."

The prospect did not seem too pleasing to Little Spider. "Maybe so," he muttered. "But it ain't time. I'm sure of that. It ain't time for us to do battle yet." He headed for the foyer and the door.

"You let me know what's happening!" Tatum called after him. Little Spider waved a hand over his shoulder, acknowledging. Then he was gone.

Vernon Tatum stood still for a full minute before the smell of chicken drew his attention to more immediate matters. Ignoring the wing in his pocket, he sat himself down at the table again and proceeded to finish off the scraps Little Spider had left.

He made up his mind he would go back to his office and sack on the couch to try and get some rest.
Chapter 13

1.

It was steamy hot and thick with rolling mist when Little Spider and Vernon Tatum paddled their way through thick reeds and into the mouth of Dingle Creek. A chorus of loud croaks from the bullfrogs erupted from a bushy promontory on the far bank, while Tatum's oar cracked hard against a piece of blackened cypress limb floating lazily down to the sea. The din of crickets and mosquitoes was irritating.

It was night time in the swampy shallows along the northern stretch of Gage Island, near onto midnight or later that sweltering, fetid Tuesday. Tatum hadn't slept ten minutes in the eight hours he had lain on the couch in his office. He had stared at the ceiling instead, connecting all the dots of the cork panels into gruesome, gaping faces. He'd soon grown tired of that little game and, restless for company and peeved at Little Spider for not reporting in, he had followed the messenger that had finally arrived shortly after nine o'clock, telling him there was nothing to tell, right back to Little Spider himself, stocking up a stout oaken canoe with water and sandwiches by the side of the Highway 21 bridge.

They'd argued for a while and some of the men had grumbled and left the search party for a walk down to Peek's Liquor Store but in the end, Little Spider had relented and put Tatum to work helping fit out the canoe. He had seen the lines on the Sheriff's face, deep, shadowy worry lines, and read them for what they were. It was the same look his Papa sometimes had when he had come back from a weeklong sojourn at one of this thinking holes. The kind of look a man had consorting with the demons in his own heart.

They had paddled without talking for the better part of an hour, skirting the fragrant rushes and turbid shoals that lined the banks of the Gage River, a slender body of stagnant water that separated Gage Island, a few miles north of the Marine air base, from the mainland.

Little Spider had told Tatum of his belief that any clues to the whereabouts of the Millen girl or Mrs. Voss and her daughter would be found near water, perhaps even in the water.

"Daddy X likes the water," he pronounced. "The Alligator Man can't go far from it or be out of it for very long."

"That's the first I ever heard of that," Tatum said. He grunted, pushing a cypress limb away from the keel.

"It's true. They say he shrivel up and die if he stay out too long." He indicated the thick path of marsh grass. "Let's go in there. And keep your arms up high. I have known the water moccasin to climb right up an oar sometimes."

Tatum grimaced. "Thanks a lot."

They steered the canoe through the grass, and a dense cloud of swamp flies, batting away the prickly stems as they plowed deeper into the tangle.

"Somewhere in here is the mouth to Dingle Creek. This spartina overgrowed the entrance a long time ago—tides shifted the river bottom, so they say. We just hack awhile until we find it."

The canoe rocked over a sandbar and nearly overturned. Tatum could hear Little Spider's breathing getting heavier as they slashed their way through. The water thrashed at the end of his oar and something brushed against the side of the canoe, scraping its way along the bottom. Overhead, through the stalks, a hazy moon peeked in and out of view.

"What makes you think the girl's up Dingle Creek?"

Little Spider didn't answer for a minute and Tatum had to repeat the question.

"Sorry. I was listening for something. Let's go right a tad."

They poled the bow around; the water was almost too shallow to float them.

"You didn't answer my question."

"Daddy X—the Alligator Man—was sighted up in here not too long ago. Couple of boys gone fishing—it was that night your place got broke into. I jus' got a feeling about this...plus there's some old shacks deeper in."

"It's worth a look," Tatum agreed.

They slogged on through the weeds for a few minutes until the canoe broke free at last into deeper swifter water. The current turned the sideways and both men leaned on their oars to right themselves.

"Creek flows a little slower upstream," Little Spider said. It was a narrow, tawny black stretch of water, fill of silt and leaves and pieces of bark. The banks were steep and thick with brush and moss, draping over the water. Something splashed into the water behind them and glided across the creek just astern. "Looks like we paddle for a spell."

They said little for many minutes. Tatum had already removed his shirt; his chest was bright with sweat and he slapped constantly at the bites breaking out on his face and shoulders. Goddamn mosquitos. His back and hip were beginning to ache from the exertion. The further they went, the more Little Spider took over the bulk of the rowing.

Tatum wrinkled his nose. "What's that smell?"

Little Spider stopped for a moment and let his oar drag in the water. He sniffed the air.

"Dead gator, smells like. Somewhere off in the bush. It's decaying quick. They smell like musk when they're living."

"And sewage when they die." Tatum mopped his stinging face with his soggy shirt. "I can't see a thing through these weeds."

"It's too shallow to get much closer. Plus I'd just as soon stay away from those vines. Cottonmouth like to nest up there. A body could get a fair surprise if he weren't careful."

Tatum squinted at the ropy vines dangling in the water. "You don't say."

They pressed on, around a narrow bend as Dingle Creek jogged more toward the east. The swamp grass began to thin and the banks became slick with black mud, rising ever so gently from the scummy water before blending into the shadows of the deep woods. A series of loud screeches greeted them as they rounded the bend.

"Screech owl," Tatum murmured to himself.

"Tellin' us to beware," said Little Spider. "It's the prowling time for sure now." They paddled for a while and the air became noticeably more stifling and fetid. Dim green eyes glared at them from a low-hanging branch. Tatum felt his throat dry. He reached reflexively for the .45 on the floor beside him. Its cool metal grip was reassuring.

Twenty yards behind them, another set of eyes streamed right along, following and watching, keeping its distance. Dull orange eyes. Neither man noticed them.

"What you gon' do if we can't find this girl, Sheriff?"

Tatum was a minute answering. "Damned if I know, Willie. I expect Byron Presser'll have my head for starters. If they don't run me out of town come election time next year, I'll probably stick with the law. Ain't much else I can do."

"Doing the law and doing root are a lot alike, sometimes, you know that? They both powerful things, mysterious in their ways to most folks, but they be necessary to live right. And you cain't mess with either one if you expects to stay healthy."

"Amen to that."

Little Spider suddenly stopped rowing and raised his oar, pointing off toward a shallow rise just beyond the banks.

"That's our first shack. Let's put her to shore and get out."

They steered the canoe up to the bank and hopped out, dragging it up onto the mud flats until the bow as wedged into the ground enough to stay put. Tatum hauled himself up the slippery slope with a hanging vine and stood next to Little Spider peering through the copse of pine trees at a crumbling shanty leaning precariously toward the creek, its two front cinder block foundations long since removed or washed away.

"Who lived here?" Tatum asked. They pushed through a sheet of moss and walked up a spongy dirt path toward the splintered front porch.

"I cain't say for sure. Different folks at different times. Fishermen, most likely, casting for creek shrimp and sheepshead. They come and go." He placed a shoe experimentally on one of the boards; it cracked and dropped into the dust immediately. "Might even be Boulder Bevins' old place; he used to come around a lot years back."

Tatum scrunched up his nose at the smell. He pulled out a cigar and stuck it in his mouth; the air was too putrid to breathe otherwise.

"I guess we'd best have a look."

Little Spider stepped back. "After you, buckra."

"You got that flashlight?" Little Spider placed it in his hand and Tatum squeezed between two fallen posts and snapped it on, playing it around the single room.

The floor was dirt and covered with bones of every size and shape. Tatum nearly swallowed his cigar and cautiously stepped through the door. His stomach turned at the sight.

They were animal bones, from the looks of them. Mounds of them dumped in every corner, some with scraps of flesh still clinging. Fish bones as well, littering the floor. His shoes crunched in the dirt with every step. The walls were black with age and crusted blood streaks. A row of jars lay half buried in the dirt on the other side of a tiny pit in the center of the room.

Tatum held his breath, felt Little Spider disturb the air as he too stepped inside, and crouched down for a better look.

He quickly wished he hadn't and stood up gagging with disgust almost at once.

"What in God's name--?"

Little Spider took the flashlight out of his hand and stooped to examine the jars himself. In the murky, dusty light, he could see that most of the jars, the ones still intact, contained the remains of preserved animal viscera: shriveled black hearts, intestines, livers and a few brains. A few of the jars held something else and it was these jars that made Little Spider's blood run cold.

He picked one up and beamed the flashlight through it. Inside, was a perfect likeness of the Sheriff himself, a painstakingly detailed homunculus no more than five inches long, floating in a cloudy, fluid preservative. Each time he shook the jar, the figure seemed to come alive, leering out at them with bloodshot eyes and a puffy, terrified face.

"Put that damn thing down, will you?" Tatum grabbed his flashlight back. His flesh crawled with a shiver. "It's only a frigging doll."

Little Spider swallowed audibly. "It's more than that, Sheriff."

"What do you mean?"

He pointed to some bones circumscribing the pit where they had found the jars. "See that? It's a hexing seal, protecting these instruments. We broke it now."

Tatum grunted his disgust. "This your Papa's stuff?"

Little Spider shook his head. "He don't work with the entrails of animals. Daddy X been by this way recently."

Tatum shone his flashlight around the cabin. He took a few steps in each direction, once stooping to pick up one of the larger bones. Human bone would be sturdier, he told himself. Even a little girl's. He made himself believe that and tossed the bone back in the dirt.

"We may as well leave, Sheriff. That girl ain't been in here."

"I 'spose you're right. Let's go."

They left the cabin, sliding and slipping down the bank toward the canoe. Little Spider was first in and had them shoved off and heading upstream before Tatum had sat down.

They drifted deeper into the woods, to a point where the creek narrowed down to a width of only a few feet. The canoe scraped against the side of a cypress knee with a loud squeal.

They investigated two more shacks, neither of which showed any signs of having been recently occupied. Tatum checked his watch by flashlight; it was nearing three in the morning and a numb fatigue had begun to set in. He found himself staring for long minutes at the patterns of ripples his oar made in the water, nearly hypnotized by their symmetry. Only once was the spell broken, when he heard something thrash in the water a few dozen yards behind them.

Gator crossing the creek, most likely.

It was becoming clearer by the moment that they would not find Kim Millen anywhere near Dingle Creek. He was right back where he had started a day and a night ago and the admission of it left a sour taste in his mouth. He rummaged for another cigar.

"I got one more idea where we might take a look, Sheriff. If you're willing."

"I'm paid to be willing. What is it?"

"Just up yonder—see where the creek switches back? There's an old abandoned junkyard. Cars and trucks and things. And there's an old praise house not far away. Far as I know, some folks still use that church. There's a graveyard on the other side too."

"How far back does the creek go?"

"Back to some swamps on the northeast of Gage Island. That's the source, so far as I know."

Tatum chewed on his cigar. It was high time they gave up this voodoo hunt and went back to doing things the way an officer of the law ought to do them. He cursed himself silently for ever having thought the idea would work.

"Okay. We'll have a look around. If we don't find anything, we head back downstream."

They parked the canoe on the banks again and clambered up to more solid ground. Some space had been cleared out of a dense thicket of vines and into the clearing had been dumped dozens of rusting car hulks and truck bodies, piled together in several low hills under a canopy of drooping tree limbs. Tatum trudged up to the first mound and began prowling through the wreckage. He swore out loud when the flashlight battery went dead.

"I'll come from the other side," said Little Spider. He disappeared around the corner of a smashed truck cab. Tatum heard metal groaning and squeaking and waded into the midst of the junkyard himself, kicking and pushing to clear himself a path. Footing was treacherous without any light and more than once, he banged his leg against a car door.

Crouching on top of a caved-in roof, he saw Little Spider leaning over the edge of another car upended and lying on its side, peering down into what looked like a badly cracked rear window on the other side. The nose of the car into which he was looking lay crushed on top of the roof of still another car buried underneath and the upended vehicle swayed a bit as he placed his full weight on it. Tatum kicked at a radio antenna in frustration.

How on earth did they get all these cars back in here?

"Sheriff!"

Something in his voice made Tatum look up. He saw Little Spider scrambling down to the ground.

"What?"

"Come here...."

Tatum grunted letting himself down to the ground, snagging his trousers on a piece of fender as he hit the ground. He walked around the pile and came up beside Little Spider.

"What do you—"

"Look."

Tatum blinked and rubbed his eyes. I'm seeing things. He crawled up on the slanting trunk good of the car with the cracked rear window and peeped through the swirls in the star pattern.

A small child, a girl, lay curled up on the back seat, her face buried against the fold. It had to be....

"Come on. Help me get this damn door open." They hustled around to the front door—it was a two-door sedan, an old Buick—and pushed and pulled and twisted until they had the thing half off its hinges. Tatum pushed Little Spider aside and squeezed himself into the narrow opening, holding his breath and belly in until he was hung half draped over the steering wheel and could just stretch out and peep over the top of the seat. A sharp twinge stabbed his back but he ignored it.

It was Kim Millen. It had to be.

"Pull that fucking door wider—I'm stuck." He kicked at it until it finally screeched and fell off its hinges. Tatum craned over the back seat and hoisted the child up and over into his lap. He sank back into the seat, exhausted.

She was alive. And her skin was covered with a fiery crimson rash, tough and scaly to the touch.

Tatum flinched at the sight; even in the dim moonlight, he could see the rash covered the length of her body. She was clad in white gym shorts, no shirt. And her face was bruised and puffy.

"She okay?" asked Little Spider. He poked his head through the window. "She gonna...shit, man...." He wrinkled his nose at the sight and backed out. "She got some kind of disease?"

Tatum shifted himself until he could duck and climb out of the car. Kim was limp in his arms, barely breathing. He carried her over to the edge of the junkyard, setting her down on a grassy bank. He hadn't felt any broken bones.

"It's some kind of rash."

Little Spider bent over but kept his distance. "That looks like poison ivy or something."

Tatum pressed her eyelids open to examine the pupils. She moaned a bit and shuddered violently. Tatum gripped her hands tightly.

"Kim--?" He pressed his hands to her forehead. She was burning up with fever. "This ain't no poison ivy. See how her skin's all puckered up? It's tougher than hide. She's swallowed something." He felt her pulse; it was weak, and getting weaker. "Kim Millen—do you hear me...?"

Her eyes opened, slowly, first to a slit, then wider. They seemed gray and clouded. Tatum bent over and pressed his palm to her cheek, wincing at the scabrous feel of her skin.

"Kim?"

A harsh gasp erupted from her lips, a putrid puff of breath that made Tatum gag.

"NOOOOO!!!" she screamed. She reached up and clawed at his face, catching him flush on the cheek. Blood spurted instantly from the wound.

"NOOOOO!!!! IT HURTS DON'T HURT ME PLEASE!!!! PLEASE DON'T, PLEASE DON'T, PLEASE DON'T, I CAN'T!!!!"

She rocked so hard Tatum had to grab her to keep her from lurching to her feet. He clutched her over his shoulder and she vomited down his back, spewing out her insides, retching until she was purple and gasping for breath. She clawed him again, gouging her nails through his shirt, until Tatum finally had to fling her away, dropping her heavily to the ground.

"Goddamn," said Little Spider, somewhere behind her. "Jesus Fucking Christ...."

Tatum whirled and saw him pointing at the ground. He stared down at the pool of vomit staining the grass, in disbelief.

A mass of tiny black snakes scurried about in the midst of the puke, flipping and slithering off into the grass, snapping at each other and anything that moved.

"She spit that up...."

Tatum watched the girl writhing in the dirt a few yards away. In the half light, he had a fleeting thought. She could almost be...but then he dismissed it. She's just sick is all. Still, it was striking to watch. She could almost be mimicking the snakes.

"Let's get her out of here," he told Little Spider. "You get the canoe ready. She may be in shock; we'd better cover her up good."

Little Spider gulped and sprinted off down to the creek. Tatum fought back his own revulsion and squatted down to hoist her up. When she started to claw at him again, he put her down and slipped off his belt, binding her wrists together. She relaxed for a moment, glaring up at him with black fathomless eyes. When he picked her up again, she shrieked out.

"HE'S HERE!!!! DON'T PLAY IN THE WATER, LITTLE GIRL!!!!"

With that, she slumped into unconsciousness. Tatum hustled her out of the junkyard and down the banks to the canoe.

He lay her gently down in the center and covered her with his own shirt and Little Spider's.

"It'll have to do for now," he said.

"Let's go, man." They shoved the canoe off its wedge of mud and heaved it out into the creek.

Kim Millen lay quietly shivering under the pile of shirts as they rowed furiously back down stream. Her head bobbed from time to time, lurching violently, as if she were stabbed by needles. She belched a foul breath of decaying flesh.

It was a two hour trip back to Bayville and the Millen home. It seemed like days to Verne Tatum. As they made their way down Dingle Creek and out into the choppier waters of the Broad River, Kim slowly lapsed into a quiet, haunted sulk, staring listlessly over the edge of the canoe, or up at the patchy night clouds, occasionally at him or Little Spider. There were bursts of hysterical laughter punctuated by fits of sluggish murmuring. Tatum asked her questions, whenever he thought her lucid enough to respond. The bouts of delirium and vomiting pretty much subsided to nothing by the time they had run the canoe ashore alongside the Highway 21 bridge abutment where they had first put out. Her answers made little sense and Tatum soon gave up. He had hoped to find proof that the Lattimore kid was involved somewhere, but he couldn't twist her words to fit. It was something else entirely.

The drive into Bayville brought once answer that Tatum didn't want. He questioned the girl closely about her friend Angie and what had happened in the graveyard of the old Negro praise house. Much of her reply was nonsense gibberish and snickering. But she was quite dispassionate when she informed them both that both Angie and her mother were dead.

Tatum gripped the steering wheel a little harder. "How do you know that, Kim?"

"Angie laughed. She shouldn't have laughed, you know. Daddy doesn't like that."

"Why doesn't Daddy like that?"

She shrugged and spent a few seconds trying to loosen the belt that still bound her wrists. Finally, she gave up. "'Cause he doesn't, that's all. When he makes the gators dance, you're supposed to pay attention. Clarinne told me never to laugh when he does that. Otherwise, when he makes you a gator, it hurts and you get the cramps. And die."

Tatum turned onto Sandy Creek Road and stopped a few hundred yards down the street from the Millen house, still lit brightly by its outside spots. He'd let Little Spider off in town; they were alone now. He twisted around in his seat to face Kim.

"Did he make you a gator?"

She smiled quietly but said nothing. "We're all gonna be gators someday. Even the grown-ups." She dropped the smile and her face darkened for a moment. "Especially the grown-ups."

"Do you love Daddy X, Kim? Do you want to be with him a lot?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "All the time. I—" she stopped, looked up quizzically at the Sheriff. "He understands me. He really does understand me." She tried the belt again and Tatum reached over to untie it. "He's always there."

"This man is dangerous, Kim. You know that, don't you? I want you to help me catch him before he kills again. He's been killing a long time."

Kim rubbed her wrists where the belt had chafed them. She was thoughtful, staring wistfully out the front windshield. Then she gave a violent start.

"I have to go home now."

Tatum sighed, and started the engine again. He wasn't looking forward to the Millens' reaction when they say what their daughter looked like. As he pulled into their driveway, he radioed Luana back at the station to awaken Dr. Macklin and have him come out to the Millen house right away. He was anxious to know what the girl had taken to give her such an ugly leprous skin rash.

The front doors burst open as soon as Tatum cut the engine. Sarah came running out, with Bart right behind her. Tatum opened the door and got out. Kim slid out behind him.

"Kim, honey, darling...Kim, I'm so thankful...thank God you're...." She stopped short at the first good glimpse of her daughter. Her face blanched. "Kim...?"

Tatum walked the girl up to her parents.

"What's happened to you?"

"I believe she's swallowed something she shouldn't have, Mrs. Millen. I've got Dr. Macklin on his way right now."

Bart reached out to touch his daughter's face. She regarded him coldly but didn't flinch when he pressed a finger against a livid scab on her forehead. "You radioed she was okay, Verne. You didn't say anything about—"

"I know, I know. I'm sorry, but there was no way to explain. I wanted you to see for yourself."

Bart stooped down and took his daughter's face in his hands. "Honey, are you okay? You're not hurt, are you?"

Her face was blank and unrecognizing. "I have to lie down awhile."

"She's tired, Bart. She's been through a terrible experience. Here," Saran reached out to take her daughter's hand, "let's put you to bed so the doctor can have a look. You must be starving." She took Kim's hand and led her firmly up the steps into the house. Bart and the Sheriff stayed outside a few minutes longer.

"I don't know how to thank you enough, Verne. For getting Kim back safe, I mean. Sarah's just been impossible." He ran his hands through his hair. "I guess I have been too."

"The case ain't closed yet. Kim told me she saw Angie and Mrs. Voss killed. I'm not sure what kind of experience she's been through, or whether it's true or not, but I've got to check it out."

Bart's face paled. "I can't believe that. Just what are we dealing with here?"

"A madman, looks like. An animal. I hate to admit it, but we may need outside help in getting him." He thought of Dr. Spider. "Lots of help." He checked his watch and yawned. The glow of dawn was already brightening the sky. "Guess I'd better go see what Neely is up to. We'll have to redirect our search parties now. I'm going to drop by Wally Voss's place too. I'll be back before lunch. I'm gonna need to question that girl a little more about what she may have witnessed. But it can wait until after Doc Macklin looks at her."

"You think she's right? About Kris and Angie, I mean."

Tatum climbed back into his cruiser and shut the door. He draped himself over the steering wheel. "I hope to God not, Bart. This town's on edge as it is now. But I'm fearing the worst. Looks like Daddy X won't stop until we stop him."

Bart nodded silently, thinking. "Can we?"

Tatum snorted. "I don't know but we're sure as hell going to try." He started the engine. "Oh, while I'm thinking of it, do one thing for me?"

"Sure."

"You get any more voodoo dolls in the mail, you bring 'em to me right away. I've got an idea on how we might turn the trick back, maybe even lead us right to the culprit if we're lucky."

"Fight fire with fire, is that it?"

Tatum nodded. "Exactly." He put the car in gear. "I'll be back directly."

He pulled out of the driveway and sped off toward town. He wanted to have a word with Little Spider before he called in all the search parties for new instructions.
Chapter 14

1.

Jimmy Lattimore fumbled with the phone directory in the dark until he finally had the thing open to the right page. He was wedged into a phone booth alongside the darkened corner of a dirt alley and Church Street, right at the edge of town, sheltered from any view of the street by the withered bulk of a massive oak tree that graced the side lawn of the Headland Baptist Church. He'd spent most of the night hunkered down in the basement of the kindergarten wing, kicking at roaches and rats and drinking one bottle after another of orange sodas he had found stacked in crates near the stairs. He was sick to his stomach and tired of running. He'd killed a man a few days ago, cut him down good, so Corporal Steen couldn't squint at him like he loved to do and ask him why he left his bra back at the barracks, you sissy-faced pie-shit.

Even Daddy can't say that no more.

Now he'd be a man and turn himself in and take whatever punishment they chose to dish out. He ran his finger down the page until he came to the first of the Dunns. It wasn't too hard finding the listing for Colonel Guy A. He dropped in a quarter and dialed the number. It was busy.

Didn't matter. He saw the address. He knew there was a map on the front seat of the car he'd ransacked in the back parking lot, looking for food, money, keys, anything useful. He'd ditched the .45 in the alley hours ago. No more ammunition. He didn't need it anyway. He felt different about a lot of things now.

Sandy Creek Road was the address given. On the map, it looked to be a couple or three miles. He slipped out of the phone booth and set off walking, right down the middle of Church Street. It was still night but the sun would be up soon. In a few hours, he'd be squatting happily on the front stoop of the Dunn household, just like a happy old hound back from a night's good hunting and adventure.

He grinned at the look he knew he's see on the Colonel's face.

Jimmy Lattimore daydreaming stroll through the city of Bayville was interrupted a half an hour later, just as he was walking down Million Street toward the wharf and the Byron T. Presser Bridge. He heard an engine revving behind him and a sprinkle of drunken laughter. A jeep full of men pulled up alongside a few minutes later.

One of them, a burly, bearded man, leaned out. "Lost your way, son?" The others laughed; there were four in all.

Jimmy Lattimore kept on walking. "I'm okay," he muttered.

The Beard growled and turned the Jeep so that it nearly brushed Lattimore's leg. "Awful late for kids to be out. You must be up to no god." The Jeep bounced on and off the curbstone.

The other man in the front seat spoke up. He was a mangy, white-haired man with a deep burnished tan and slit eyes. "I seen that guy before."

Beard snorted. "You're fucked, Clyde. It's just some new tramp, waiting to get rolled."

"Naw, man, look hard. That face—" Clyde hopped out his side of the Jeep while Beard let them coast to a stop a few feet ahead. He came around and yanked Lattimore's arm back, jerking him around so they were face to face. "I know you, buster—from somewhere." He squinted, trying to remember.

The other men scrambled out and came up to watch.

"You don't know me," Lattimore said. He wished he hadn't ditched that .45 now. "I wasn't bothering anything."

"You bothered me," Beard said. "Sissyfooting down the street like that—"

Lattimore's face darkened.

"Look out," teased a small man who was shirtless. He'd been riding in the back. "He's gon' get mad and whup you." They all chuckled.

Clyde suddenly had it. His face brightened, the squint lines opening up like a flower. His eyes narrowed and he grabbed Lattimore by the chin. "You that Marine kid, aren't you? I seen your face in the newspaper."

Jimmy was silent.

"It is him," said Beard. "I'll be damned."

"Son of a bitch."

Clyde twisted Lattimore's jaw around hard. "I ain't liking what you did to my woman, boy."

Lattimore swallowed hard and tried to twist loose but he couldn't. "What are you talking about?"

"You know fucking well what I'm talking about, bootlicker. Shelley Raines. Few weeks back." His face fell and he let Lattimore go for a moment. "Me and her, we had a thing, see...it was going to be real good. She liked my work, my carvings...it was going to be real nice...." He scowled back at Lattimore, who blinked but said nothing.

"You killed her."

Jimmy shook his head. Beard and the other men raced up and took him by the arms. He struggled for a moment but it was useless. The little man with no shirt kneed him in the groin. Jimmy doubled over in pain.

"I dint kill nobody," he gasped out, clutching his crotch, nearly stooped to the ground. Beard yanked him up by his black hair.

"What are we going to do, Clyde? You want to wreck him?"

Clyde Kiernan rubbed the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. "I expect I could get a pretty piece of compensation from Sheriff Tatum for hauling this dork in. Buy me a mess of catfish and Bourbon with what he'd bring."

"I thought your bounty-huntin' days were over."

"On the other hand," Clyde went on, walking a complete circle around their prisoner, "we'd be doing the public a service by ridding the County of this menace. Don't you think, Mel?"

Mel, the Beard, nodded wisely. "I think I see your meaning. And I know just the place."

They forced him into the back of the Jeep, squashed in between the shirtless man, whom they called Gaylon, and the fourth man, silent through most of the night, though he held the barrel of a shotgun trained on Lattimore's temple the whole trip. Clyde and Mel rode up front.

"I didn't kill nobody," Jimmy protested, as they rode up the ramp and across the Byron T. Presser Bridge. The Jeep picked up speed and sliced right into the black woods on the other side, hurtling down the middle of U.S. 21 toward Tuggle and Frogland and the gloomy depths of the eastside swamps. When nobody answered his protests, Jimmy took a deep breath and settled back as comfortably as he could. He decided he'd make a dash for safety as soon as they came to a stop.

Thirty minutes later, his only opportunity had come and gone. Mel had run the Jeep off the highway about ten minutes the other side of the village of Frogland, and steered the Jeep bouncing and careening up a narrow dirt lane deep into the woods. They rode for a few minutes, following a wide circle through the pines and moss, staying on the high side of a meandering ridge that formed part of the geologic backbone of the island. Thick mats of grass and marsh muckle whipped over the windshield and splatted into their faces. In time, they had rolled to a stop, within earshot of the beach—Jimmy was sure he could hear breakers crashing on the sand shoals just ahead—and piled out of the vehicle.

He thought to run but was quickly grabbed by both arms and half-carried, half-dragged toward a massive twisted oak tree before he had a chance to act. They had him secured with rope and belt to the trunk of the tree before he could even catch his breath. He swore a silent oath at himself for failing to get away; the chance was gone and now he was stuck.

"What now?" asked Mel. The other men went back to the Jeep and popped open a few beers. They lounged comfortably against the side of the car.

"Gimme that shotgun," Clyde said. Mel looked at him for a second, then scooted off when Clyde shot him a dark glance. He came back with the weapon and handed it over.

"This ain't too fair, is it? I mean, executin' a fella like so."

Clyde checked the chambers and clicked her shut. He scowled up at the brightening sky. A flock of gulls wheeled overhead, anticipating.

"He wasn't fair with Shelley, ripping her up like that. I loved that women...we were going to—" He stopped, licked his lips nervously, and nudged Mel back with the barrel of the gun. "I'll decide what's fair around here."

Mel stood beside him. "Like you decide everything."

Clyde turned to glare at his friend for a long silent moment. "I'll tell you right now that I didn't hear that. Them gulls obscured what you said." He backed off and settled himself down on one knee, easing the cock back. "Just don't say it again."

The moment seemed to last forever. No one heard the wet rustle in the brush behind the Jeep. The cawing of the gulls, the scattering of crows, fluttering out of the trees screeching at the sharp discharge of the shotgun, the shouts of Gaylon and Mel, the scream of pain as two lead slugs tore through Jimmy's right thigh,. All of it masked the sound of something heavy, something foul and malevolent, bursting out of the woods, bearing down on the clearing with mindless fury.

"LOOK OUT!" someone yelled. Clyde turned about, sniffing the pungent mixture of gunpowder and moth-eaten musk, and stared up in horror at the thing that toward wet and scaly and hissing over him.

He stood for a full ten seconds, mouth working futilely, face to face with the Alligator Man.

The other men scattered into the woods in terror, but Clyde Kiernan froze solid to the ground in his moment of panic. The delay would prove to be fatal.

The Walking Gator stuck out a claw and lay open a six-inch swath of flesh along Clyde's face. Before he crumpled to the dirt spurting blood in all directions, the King of the Snakes had snapped his neck with an audible crack and ripped free his right arm from its socket, so that the limb hung limp and useless dangling from a few knotted bloody ligaments.

Clyde Kiernan lay in a heap and was still.

Through the dim red haze of his pain, Jimmy Lattimore was aware of the approach of the Alligator Man. Amber eyes burned like arc lamps in the fog as his huge bulk loomed closer, finally filling the totality of his vision, overpowering him with the gagging stench of the swamp, until he choked and passed out.

Only once after that, for many hours to come, did Jimmy Lattimore regain anything like a semblance of consciousness.

A fleeting second, no more, and it was enough to send his damaged mind reeling back into the depths, for he awoke to the feel of scummy water gliding over his back, to the feel of being strapped down on a bed or rough bark-like hide, unable to move, the feel of being transported, like a helpless prey captured, up the steaming channel of a misty creek—perhaps even a river—the squat arches of ghostly gray trees leering down on him as the faint sunlight stabbed on and off like a maniac's beacon. All this he felt, or thought he felt, for later it was so distant and dreamlike he could not be sure but that he might have imagined it, and then nothing but black.

The warm, wet abyss closed over him.

He came to in a sweat, panting for air, fighting a growing sense of claustrophobia, like that time his brother Mark shut him up in a closet all day long. He opened his eyes experimentally, and when the blur had cleared, he saw that he was lying down, on a narrow bunk in a tiny cramped compartment of some kind, the near bulkhead of which lay no more than a foot from the end of his nose.

He lifted his hand to touch the thing. It was wet, slick with black silty water. A distinct mechanical vibration could be felt as well.

He propped himself up on his elbows.

He was in a small space, not much bigger than a closet, on the topmost of a tier of three bunks. At his feet, a circular hatch lay flush with the wall. Over the side, he chanced a peek and saw the floor was some kind of mesh-type grid. There were more puddles of water.

Overhead, he let his eyes follow the severe curve of the ceiling. They came to rest on something he hadn't noticed before.

It was a porthole.

With a start, Jimmy Lattimore sat up, so abruptly that he bumped his head on an iron stanchion. Wincing, he sat up Indian-style, folding his legs under him, and stretched his neck to see out.

He was underwater. Jimmy Lattimore rubbed his eyes in disbelief. Outside the porthole, the water was dark, rich and sluggish. River water, he quickly realized. Straining to the limits of visibility, he thought he saw the beginnings of a river bank sliding up toward a dull green surface. He couldn't be sure. He craned around to see further. Spindly grass stalks waved gently in the prevailing currents. There were clumps and mounds of stubby looking shrubs growing out of every pit and crevice in the bottom mud. A pair of silvery bass glided serenely by the porthole and nosed in the upper stalks of one of the bushes. Nearby, he saw the refuse of human activity too: cinder blocks and pop bottles and something that looked very much like the rusting hulk of an outboard engine.

He shook his head slowly. This can't be. The smell of stagnant water brought back another memory, and he looked down at his thighs.

He was naked but for underwear. A thick gauzy dressing had been applied, tourniquet style, to the wounds in the leg. Surprisingly, there was little pain, a dull ache was all. The skin was numb around the bandage; he was grateful for that. But he was thirsty and cramped. He tried not to think of how he had come to be here.

No sense thinking about that. Just thinking about thinking gave him the shakes.

The big question was how to get out.

He heard a grating noise and turned back around in time to see the hatch being twisted. It opened outward and in popped the head of another man.

"Doing better, I see," he said. He offered a bemused type of grin. Jimmy Lattimore nodded and smiled back.

"Doing okay, thanks. Who are you? Where am I? What's--?"

The man held up a hand. "Not so fast. There's plenty of time for that later. How about something to eat? You'll be needing to build up some strength before...you go."

Jimmy stared quizzically at the man. He seemed to be slender, though it was hard to tell; he could only see the fellow's head and neck. He had fine, black clumpy hair, plastered wet against a furrowed forehead. Molish, thick eyebrows. Bushy moustache and thin lips, always trembling. He realized that the men was soaking wet, as if he had just come in from a swim in the river.

"Sure—I could use a bite to eat." He regarded his host carefully. "Who are you?"

The man smiled, a slick, not entirely trusting kind of smile. "I have a lot of names. Call me Dad, if you want. I'd like that."

Jimmy sank back against the pillow. He was getting tired; the gunshot wounds had weakened him considerably. His head was beginning to spin.

"When can I leave this...place, whatever it is?"

Dad pursed his lips—very expressive lips, Jimmy thought, a girl's lips my Dad would have thought—and pushed back a lock of hair that was dripping water into his eyes. "When you're strong enough. Not before."

"I have to thank you for saving my life." He touched the bandage gingerly. "Did you have to operate on my leg?"

"The wounds weren't bad. Clean entry, clean exit. No fragments. You were lucky."

"I see. Well, anyway, thanks again. If there's anything I can do for you—"

Again, the disarming smile. "I'm sure you'll think of something."

"I'm not sure I understand."

Dad touched Jimmy's foot with a finger, a playful, but meaningful poke. "I don't expect you do. But you will. We'll be big buddies before you know it. Now, how about a ham sandwich and a Coke?" He slipped away and shut the hatch even before Jimmy could reply. He heard the hatch lock click shut.

Strange man. Jimmy lay back on the pillow and shut his eyes. He could have used an aspirin or something for his leg; it was beginning to hurt a lot now. But he dozed off before he could think of it anymore.

When he awakened, he found a tray full of sandwiches, potato chips, pickles, and cookies, with several soft drinks and a can of beer. Hungrily, he sat up, nearly cracking his skull on the stanchion again, and dove into the meal. He was ravenously hungry and he managed, in the end, to eat everything on the tray and drink all the drinks as well. It was when he was finishing off the last pile of oatmeal cookies, that he chanced a look out the porthole. His mouth dropped open at the sight and cookie crumbs and Coke dribbled out all over the bed linens.

There, through the porthole, whipping off silently into the murky distance, was none other than the Alligator Man himself, gliding up toward the surface. Jimmy Lattimore stared at the sight for a long time, wondering, shuddering at the memory of his first encounter.

He knew he would have to find a way out of this cubbyhole and fast.
Chapter 15

1.

Bart Millen finished undressing and climbed into bed beside Sarah. They were both fatigued from the heat; they had spent the evening at the softball field behind Bayville Junior High, watching Dean's team, the Tigers, beat their chief rivals the Redbills, 5 to 4. Kim had come along too, at Sarah's insistence, and after a while, even she had gotten into the excitement of the game, standing up to cheer when her brother threw out a runner at the plate.

Sarah had squeezed Bart's hand when that happened. Her quiet smile told everything; their daughter was finally home.

They kissed a few moments and Bart pulled the sheets up. It was quiet in the house, late Friday night, and they were both looking forward to sleeping late. Bart had plans to go down to the marina tomorrow afternoon and finish the wax job he had started on the Sturgeon a few weeks back.

Sarah lay her head on her husband's chest, twining her fingers in his chest hair. "Kim's going to be all right, honey. I know she is now."

Bart stroked her neck and shoulders. "I know she is too. Did you see her out there tonight—yelling and clapping? She was really pulling for her brother."

"She doesn't seem to be too self-conscious about that rash anymore—thank God it's going away. I hope she won't have any scars."

"Dr. Macklin didn't think so. At least, that ointment seems to be working. Tramping around in the woods like she did, it's a wonder she didn't pick up worse."

Sarah nodded silently against his chest. Her breath was warm. "Does Sheriff Tatum still think it was that white witch doctor?"

"Mm-hmmm. I don't know how the experience is going to affect her. She needs lots of loving right now."

Sarah lifted her head and kissed him. "So do I." They squeezed closer together.

"None of us are strangers to violence, are we?"

"Oh, Bart, don't bring that up now please. Just hold me."

"I can help it. I was just thinking—"

"About what?"

"About how our marriage has been anything but dull. Sometimes, I think I could have done a lot better for you."

Sarah pressed her fingers to his lips. "Don't talk that way. You know I don't think that. Besides, didn't those Navy psychologists say to stop feeling sorry for yourself?"

"They said a lot of things, honey. I could have gotten more sympathy from a textbook. God knows, there must be times when Kim thought we had abandoned her."

"She doesn't think any such thing, Bart. You've been a wonderful husband and father. Our kids have seen things and done things that most kids only dream about."

"Amen to that."

"You know what I mean. You want me to be your pity pal again, tonight? Is that it?"

Bart grinned at the phrase. "I haven't heard that since...Washington. I guess not. I'll be a big boy this time."

Sarah slipped her hands under the sheets. "In more ways than one, my dear."

They both laughed and Bart switched off the lamp.

They cuddled for a while, nosing each other and giggling until they were ready. Sarah helped him in, sucking in her breath until he was situated right, until they were both comfortable. He went to work and Sarah let her mind wander for a few minutes.

She told herself that Bart was wrong. They had been good parents. Julie and Dean and Kim had never wanted for anything really essential. They had been fed right, clothed, taught right from wrong and loved plenty from the first day of their lives. I haven't always been as strict with them as I should have. But Bart was better at that sort of thing, when he was home and not on patrol. They had no reason to feel ashamed about anything.

She groaned as her husband plunged deeper. Damn him, he shouldn't make me feel this way. She'd always tried hard to be a tough, little sailor girl. Sometimes, it was hard, sometimes it was....

She suddenly realized he had stopped thrusting. "What's the matter?" she murmured. His forehead and hair were soaking wet.

"I...don't know," he grumbled. He slid out of her and rolled over on his back. "Too much thinking, I guess." He rubbed his eyes.

She kissed him and then pulled the sheets up over his shoulders. He shifted away and soon settled down to a fitful sleep. Sarah followed suit, carefully molding her body to fit his.

Even as it happened, Bart knew he was dreaming. But the pull of the memory was so strong, he felt helpless to resist and he soon gave up trying.

The Tulsa was twenty hours out of the launch zone, steaming at flank speed toward her assigned rendezvous with the Cheyenne. The control room was hushed; but for the hollow pinging of the active sonar, everyone was deathly still. They were waiting—he remembered that now, the expectant waiting, as if the men were all mannequins, propped up to witness a public hanging. He remembered it all now, twenty hours out of the LZ, nose to nose with his exec Nathan Caden, the livid veins of his eyeballs reflecting flashing lights off the trim status board behind them.

It was The Argument, all over again, and as usual, in vivid, living color.

"You are not authorized to call up a test firing at this time, Mr. Caden. That is irregular procedure and dangerous to the crew and the boat." The Captain was always concerned about his authority.

"I was investigating an anomalous reading in the launch tube pressure system, sir," replied the Exec, ever fretful and ready to challenge.

"The fact remains that you disregarded SOP without authorization or command, Mr. Caden. You're jeopardizing the mission of this boat by your thoughtless initiative."

The Exec always licked his lips in this re-enactment. "I am terribly sorry, sir, if I acted out of turn. I thought we were working for the same company here." A little greasy smirk always followed this remark. In the Exec's eyes, Bart could readily see the trim status board going red. The boat would lurch out of control any moment now.

"Your mission," reminded the Captain, rising to the full power of his voice, "is to follow orders, and nothing more. We don't free-lance on a nuclear boat, do we?"

"No, sir," cried the Exec, in a fit of anger, spitting out every word. "And we don't make juvenile displays of power to impress the crew either, do we?"

It was always at this point that Tulsa's trim went to hell and the boat careened out of control, trading buoyancy and depth and plane angle like a blackjack dealer with a hot deck of cards. Through a hundred different replays of the same dream, Bart had come to be something of an expert critic on the thing, and he found it easier each time, to stand aside from the drama and observe the fine detail. It was something different each time around, like for instance, in this one, he could savor the exquisitely nasty rage that the Exec portrayed in the final seconds, the quivering eyebrows and fanatic's stare, the shocked oval of his mouth and how bright was the blood that dribbled from his nostrils after the solid thump of a solid right....

...of course, now they were outside Tulsa, no diving gear or anything—things like that never mattered in dreams—staggering about the foredeck of the boat just abaft the maintenance hatch, flailing away in slow motion, while the sub slid stern first off the ledge and plunged toward the black canyons below. A fistfight, mind you, between the Captain and the Exec of the nuclear attack submarine SSN-696, the U.S.S. Tulsa, as she plunged with a tortured scream of rending metal and billowing oil, down into the bowels of the Atlantic Ocean.

The struggle always seemed to last some minutes, even hours it seemed like, with neither man able to land any effective blows. It was far too dark, too cold and besides that, the pressure was slowly but surely crushing them. Already, the Exec was twisted like a pretzel, but still he fought bravely on, battering at the proud Captain's face with puny, ineffectual blows, his face contorted like a melting mask, grasping at his collar, choking him, now clinging in panic as the cold settled in and bit by inexorable bit, the light faded to a deep, impenetrable black....

He knew now that he had assigned Caden to scuba duty because he wanted to be rid of the man. No, that wasn't quite it either; Caden had requested the opportunity. He wants to get back in good graces with the Captain. Nathan Caden? Are you out of your mind, boy? What a pile of shit.

...and sometimes, but not every time, after the curtain had come down and black had closed in, he thought, or thought he thought, that maybe the man hadn't gone down screaming bloody murder in his throat mike, fastened beyond help by a badly kinked safety cable to the airlock hinge. Sometimes, the Exec's badly mauled bloody fists would materialize out of the night and fly right at his face, groping once again for one last purchase, one last right to the jaw, clutching blindly at his cheek, his lips, anything for God's sake to keep from taking that final fateful fall into oblivion...sometimes, the fists just kept coming and coming and coming and—

He woke with a start and saw the flash of metal just in time. He reached out and the knife slashed across his wrist, a grazing blow, but enough to draw blood. He rolled to avoid the next blow, nearly knocking Sarah off the bed. She groaned, groggy and muttering and clutched at the sheets to keep from being pushed off.

"KIM!" Bart opened his eyes wide.

It was no dream this time.

His own daughter stood crouching by the bed, a kitchen carving knife held in both hands, ready to stab again. Her eyes were shut nearly to slits but it was her tongue, swollen green, that caught Bart's eye first. It flicked out at him at lightning speed, and then the knife came down again.

Bart rolled to avoid the blow and caught her arms with his hands. He struggled with her for a moment—my God, she's strong!—twisting her arms back and forth, wrenching her wrists until he was sure they would snap, until finally, she gasped and spit and let go of the weapon. It flew back against the wall and slid down behind the bed.

She stood there for a second, shaking violently in her nightgown, arms and hands twitching, before crumpling to the floor. Bart was out of the bed and at her side in an instant. He heard Sarah whimpering behind him.

"Ki—Kim, honey, are you okay...what is it, what's the matter...can you hear me...are you hurt...Sarah!"

"Right here...is she--?"

"Get me some cold rags. And those pills Dr. Macklin prescribed."

"Ok-kay," her voice broke and she padded off to the bathroom.

Bart watched in mute horror as his daughter writhed and squirmed on the floor, convulsing wildly at the slightest touch.

Sarah returned and dropped the bottle of pills. She stood with her hands to her mouth.

"Oh, God, she's having a fit, do something, Bart! We have to do something!"

"Help me hold her, will you?" He clutched Kim around the arms and shoulders and helped hold her down. After a moment, Sarah stooped down and grabbed her feet. Together, they clung to her for nearly five minutes, while the seizure raged and subsided. Through it all, Bart could not bear to look at his daughter's face: her cheeks and forehead had grown a mottled gray-brown pattern, stark and visibly throbbing in the wan light of the night lamp. Her tongue flicked and darted, dribbling saliva into Bart's hand.

When it was over, they were all soaked with sweat. Kim lay back with an audible groan and seemed ready for sleep. Bart picked her up and carried her back to her own bed, ignoring the questioning stares of Julie and Dean from the hallway. Sarah shooed them out and told them to go back to their rooms.

"Daddy'll be back in a minute. Just stay in your rooms."

"Is she gonna die, Momma?" Dean asked. His face was ashen.

"No, dear, she'll be okay. It's just a reaction to her medicine. We're going to call the doctor right now. Go back to your room. You too, Julie."

"Mother, I don't think I can sleep now. You can tell me the truth."

Sarah pressed her daughter's face to her side. "Your sister's sick, honey. Why don't you look after your brother?"

Julie looked up at her. She wiped away the bangs from her eyes. "Okay, Mama. Come on, Dean." She grabbed his hand and led him back to his own room, protesting all the way.

Sarah swallowed hard. What's happening to my family? She followed Bart down the hall.

Kim lay sprawled on her own bed. In the harsh glare of the overhead light, Sarah was shocked at her daughter's appearance. She had thought the growths were subsiding but they seemed to have come back worse than ever now. Ugly black patches of hide clung to her arms, neck and shoulders. She lay quietly enough, while Bart quickly bandaged his own wrist; she stared up at the ceiling in a blank daze.

"You're hurt," she said. She went to her husband. "Let me see that."

"It's not deep," Bart said. He finished wrapping the gauze and taped it down. "I'm more concerned about her."

Sarah kneeled by the side of the bed. "Kim? Kim, can you hear me?"

"Look at her eyes."

"We'd better call Dr. Macklin."

Bart shook his head. "I doubt there's much he can do. She was dreaming. Look at her. She's asleep with her eyes open now."

Sarah moved to tuck her in more tightly; shifting the sheets, she saw the skin growths had spread to her legs as well, inflaming her thighs with a horny, scaly integument. Involuntarily, Sarah flinched. "Bart...Bart, look. It's spreading. It's all over her now. What's happening to my baby--" She clutched Kim's hands and squeezed them to her face. "We have to do something."

"The doctor said it would take time. She just had a bad nightmare, that's all. She should rest easier now."

"Can't you see it's spreading?" Sarah said. "Look at her, just look. It's consuming her."

Bart took his wife by the shoulders. "We've got to be patient, Sarah. Now listen to me for a minute."

"Why do we have to be so damn patient? She should be at the Clinic right now, being examined. Medical science can do wonders. She needs help, Bart."

Bart hugged her tight, as much to quiet her as anything. "Will you just listen?" He dabbed at the seed of a tear in the corner of her eye. She nodded glumly and lay her head on his shoulders.

"That's better. Come on. Let's go have a cup of coffee." They stood together, for a few more minutes, staring at Kim, wondering. Then, Bart turned out the light. For good measure, he shut the door and locked it.

Sarah made them some coffee. They sat on the bar stools by the counter.

"We're not going to mention what happened tonight to anybody."

Sarah looked pained. She sipped coffee and glared uncomprehendingly out over the rim of the cup. "What are you saying—"

Bart held up his hand. "She doesn't need a doctor so much as she needs our love. Look, we both know she's never been our favorite child. Let's be honest. She came along at a difficult time for us and we've never given her the love and affection we gave Julie or Dean. Sometimes, hell...Sarah, sometimes, I think we had her just to take our minds off the Tulsa. She's always been bratty, independent, getting into things—"

"Bart, you can't be serious."

He shrugged, drained his coffee and stirred the grounds idly. "It's her way of signaling that she needs some attention too. And we've never given it too her, the way we should. Until now."

"You think this thing is psychosomatic? What about what Dr. Macklin said?"

"Sarah, I know Kim is into something she shouldn't be. She's involved with people she knows better than to get involved with. Not just Clarinne Bevins, but others. Don't ask me who or how I know. I just feel it. What I'm trying to say is that taking her to the doctor isn't going to solve that. It's going to take more, a lot more."

Sarah bit her lips. She rubbed the wet out of her eyes. "You don't think I've been a very good mother."

Bart knew the signs. He backed off immediately. "I didn't say that—"

"You meant it."

He sighed, thinking. "It didn't come out right. What I meant was that we—you and I and Julie and Dean—have to do a better job of making Kim feel a part of this family. Not so much an outsider. Does that make sense?"

Sarah extracted her hand from his grasp and got up. "You've always thought I wasn't a very good mother. When Daddy beat Mama to within an inch of her life, and I had to stay with her that week she came home from the hospital, you thought I should have been looking after Julie. You said so. But you can't know what a woman goes through when she gets hurt like that." She sank into the recliner and began to cry. "Even when it happened to me and—" She trailed off in great heaving sobs.

Bart knelt beside the chair and stroked her hair. "We're all to blame. It's been a bad month for all of us."

"Oh, you are your damned...guilt." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. "It's even getting to me now."

"Why don't we go back to bed?"

"You go on," Sarah said, settling back in the chair, still sniffling. "I have to think."

Dean Millen had been at the keyhole to his sister's door when he heard his father plodding into the darkened hall from the kitchen. He ducked for a second into the linen closet until he had passed, peering out through the slats at his bedroom shoes as he stopped, jiggled the locked door knob to see that it was secure, then moved on to the big bedroom at the end of the hall. When he was sure his Daddy was safely tucked away in bed, and Mama didn't seem to be following, he slipped out of the closet and went back to peering in at the thing that used to be his sister, squirming on the floor beside her bed.

Spying on her was like sneaking up to the end of the hall, the way he used to do when he was a kid, to sit by the corner and watch his parents watching the late show. He'd seen some fine old scary things on the TV back in those days—he shivered just thinking of those pod people and their kind.

He gulped and took a closer look. This was neater than all of that and besides, it was real.

There on the wooden floor of her bedroom, the creature he'd once known as Kim—I sure as hell ain't related to that—was wriggling across the floor like a limbless parasite, chasing after a stream of black cockroaches that had just scuttled out of a hole in the wall.
Chapter 16

1.

Sarah lay awake in bed unable to sleep. She had listened to the rhythmic snoring of her husband for the better part of an hour and wondered: how can he sleep so peacefully? She sighed, staring up into the darkness overhead. There were times when she absolutely could not understand the man.

Finally, she could stand it no longer. She had to be with Kim. She needs me. Maybe Bart was right. They hadn't given her the attention they had given the other children. Tonight was as good a night to correct that. She blanched at the thought of her daughter's appearance and it made her more determined. She wasn't about to let the thing that was eating at her child have its own way. She wouldn't back away from the fight now.

She threw back the covers and stuffed her feet into her old blue mules, drawing on a bathrobe. She slipped noiselessly out of their bedroom and padded up the hall toward Kim's room. Dean and Julie seemed to have settled down now; the hall was still. She peeked into their rooms just to be sure. It had been a harrowing night for all of them but if the kids weren't asleep, they were faking it well enough. She went to Kim's door and stood with her hand poised over the doorknob for a full minute.

It was locked; of course, she had nearly forgotten. The house was unusual in having doors which could be locked from the outside. She went into the den and found the right key. She was just about to fit it into the lock when she heard a faint thump on the other side.

She must be awake. Sarah realized she wanted to have a woman-to-woman talk with her. She took a deep breath and turned the key, nudging the door open slightly.

She knew right away that Kim had slipped out. The open window was proof of that. The thump had come from outside the window. A gentle breeze stirred the drapes. Sarah choked on her panic and ran to the open window, stumbling into the vanity chair Kim had propped up in order to reach the latch. She looked out.

A dark figure scuttled across the back yard, heading for the corner of the house.

It was Kim.

Sarah throttled a cry and fled the room. She ran up the hall, through the family room to the tiny foyer, unlocking and yanking on the front door. It opened a few inches, then jerked back at the limit of its chain. Silently, Sarah swore at herself and undid the catch. The door swung free and she bounded out onto the front porch.

She spied her daughter striding quickly down the road, heading for the intersection with Delta Road, just around the turn.

"Kim!" She ran down the steps and out into the front yard. The grass was wet with due and she tore her robe stepping on it. "Kim? Kim, where are you going? Kim!" Damn her. She ran up to the edge of the culvert, and cupped her hands around her mouth. "KIM, come back here right this minute!" She stood helplessly, watching her daughter disappear. She seemed to walking with a pronounced limp. "Kim...." Her voice trailed off. What on earth has gotten into that girl?

She stood there for a minute, unsure what to do next. She ought to get her car keys and drive down and pick the girl up. She debated whether to awaken Bart, fidgeting with her hands, rubbing her neck. It always itched when she was nervous. No. She wouldn't do either. She took a moment, making up her mind, wondering whether she ought to go back and change into something better. Already, her feet were damp.

She found herself moving before she realized she had already made up her mind. She leaped the culvert and set off down the street after her daughter, suddenly conscious of how utterly dark and desolate Sandy Creek Road could be at night. She stayed in the middle of the asphalt, keenly aware of being watched by hard, brittle eyes from the edge of the woods. She shivered in spite of the heat.

It wasn't long before she spotted Kim again, just ahead a few hundred yards, making a left turn onto Delta. It was puzzling and Sarah thought to call to her again but some indefinite sense of foreboding stopped her and she said nothing. She scanned the woods uneasily, not daring too close a look. She could almost...but not quite, and then it was gone. For a moment, she was certain she had heard whispers, voices muffled, drifting out to the road, little snickers and chuckles, like kids telling secrets behind their parents' back. She stopped and stood stock still in the middle of the intersection for a full minute, hands on her hips. She dared them to speak up.

"You think I can't hear you back in there, but I can." She glared hard at a dense thicket that arched its vines over the culvert and snaked its way out onto the asphalt.

Nothing. Only the night and the drone of mosquitos. She shook her head. Calm down, girl. She looked back to find Kim again, but she was gone.

Frantic, Sarah broke into a trot. She jogged a few hundred feet down Delta Road, until she finally an out of breath and was soaked with sweat. Where did she go? Am I even going the right way? She stopped to get her breath back and looked around, heaving in great gulps of air.

The road twisted on ahead, weaving around a sharp bend and tending more toward the south. She realized, with a start, that they were heading for the beach, for that old shrimper's hangout. Jephart's Bar. It was flat and the asphalt was still hot from the day's steaming sun. If anything, the foliage alongside grew more dense, more tangled and matted and snarled the closer she got to the shore. Ragged tufts of grass poked up through the cracks in the pavement. She could even small the salt air.

It didn't make any sense at all.

She finally came to a gentle crest in the road and knew the ocean was just over the rise. It was high tide and the surf was beating its endless thunder against the shore. She wasn't even sure Kim had come this way now. She could easily have ducked into the woods and gone off in another direction altogether.

Sarah walked on past where the pavement ran out into a sandy lane and up to the top of the crest. Below was the gravel parking lot of Jephart's Bar, black and deserted. Beyond the building itself, situated on stout wharf pilings on a short pier, was the pale white strip of the beach itself. She let her eyes adjust to the light, then slowly realized she was anything but alone.

The beach was fairly alive, undulating in ribbons of black and dark gray, seething with the power of the sea, a great moving mass of flesh that seemed to stretch for as far as she could see in either direction and right down to the water's edge. She choked back a cry.

They were turtles, most of them. Giant loggerheads scratching softly in the sand, mooing as they laid down their streams of eggs in clumps of white. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands, pushing the sand into mounds and small cliffs and ramparts. There was something else down there too, something that made her blood run cold. Down near the waterline, the turtles were less numerous, leaving an oblong gap of sand largely free. In the center of the patch, several alligators lay in ranks, cordoning off a part of the open space, butting away any turtles nosy enough to come up.

Sarah saw her own daughter in the midst of the gators, lying on her back in the sand, her legs wide and shaking. Another gator—what she thought was a gator—lay on top of her thrusting wildly. Sarah's throat went dry.

Her own daughter was being raped by the creature.

She stared in horror for a few moments, unable to believe what she was seeing. She felt weak, sickened and leaned against a power pole for support.

It's a dream—it's not real, for God's sake, girl, get a hold of yourself.

She looked again, but the sight wouldn't go away; it lingered and became more solid the longer she looked. My own daughter...my own Kim....

She was running across the gravel parking lot and down the sandy hill to the beach almost before she realized it. Her legs moved and she felt the painful shortness of breath she always felt when she ran but the beach seemed as far away as ever, retreating even as she approached. She cried in frustration, seeing every powerful thrust of that loathsome body into her daughter magnified, the heat and the sweat and the stench overwhelming, she could feel each lurch and shift and the coarse scales of its hide scraping her own skin until she was raw and bleeding and she couldn't stop feeling it was huge and crushing and bent on conquest and—

"KIM!"

She stumbled in the deep sand, dodging the big loggerheads, careening on, the agony of her daughter, the strain in her face, growing more intense with each step. She tripped over one of the turtles, sprawling headlong to the ground. She scrambled right back up, spitting out sand and weed, lurching forward, the beach, the cliff, the ocean, spinning spinning spinning she would never stop Bart will be home soon "Hey, Mac, lookey here, there's a little girl in the closet" we don't have anything else—I swear to God we don't—please leave us—don't kick my little girl like that—please don't do this—you don't know—do it to me and leave my children alone—you got to understand—I can see you get help and—

"KIM—OH GOD, KIM I'M COMING—"

And there he was, ten feet tall, sweating like a walking steam bath, snorting fire, eyes glowing, the most goddamned repulsive thing I've ever seen leering down at her with a spit of contempt, black seawater and kelp strands clinging like bandages, and the smell, the smell she would never forget so long as she lived, for it was so chokingly vile, so putrid and reeking of sewers and dark cellars and decayed flesh that she gagged and vomited and fell to one knee to get her breath back and let the blood flow again and—

Of course, it had to be a dream. She had on occasion, in the past, awakened in the middle of the night in a cold shivery sweat, her body alive with electricity, tingling and quivering like she's been stung, and she always knew, when these moments came, that she had been dreaming, reconstructing the violation she had suffered at the hands of those two troglodytes in that cold windswept apartment on the outskirts of Washington, D.C. in the snowblasted month of February 1975. She had spent years, decades it seemed like, coming to grips with that experience, rearranging the memory in the shadowy closets of her mind to which it had been quickly relegated, adding details, replaying the scenario and doing it all differently. Of course, it always came out the same. The pain was the same. The humiliation, the degradation and the loathing and the hatred never changed. But she seemed to have a need to drag the whole thing out again and rehash the terror of that afternoon that seemed so long ago now. Like picking at a scab, so that the sore never quite healed.

What happened on the beach was a dream, no more substantial than these other night dredgings. There was no other explanation for it—it had to be.

For if what happened when she finally arrived down at the beach really happened, if the concrete, strong light-of-day truth was that she had relived 1975 in a few minutes of harrowing breathless coupling with an animal, squirming like a helpless toad while she lay pinned to the sand underneath the weight of that slimy, God-cursed beast, Kim hovering vaguely in the background with a dazed smirk on her face, if that was what happened, then it was a thing beyond comprehension, beyond even thought, and she knew it was a damnable cur of a memory that she could never keep locked away in the closets of her mind. She knew she could never deal with something like this; it was best to bury it forever. Otherwise—

God have mercy on me.

2.

It had taken some time, hours it seemed like, but Jimmy Lattimore had finally worked the hatch at the end of his bunk free. He sat back to rest for a moment, bathed in sweat, and wondered.

How on earth am I going to get outside? He was underwater, under some river from the looks of it and he never had been a good swimmer, really didn't even like the water. He mopped his face with the sheets on the bed and decided to consider that when the time came. It was like Schockley used to say, when they were lying awake nights in their bunks waiting for lights out. "Why worry about what Steen's gonna do tomorrow?" he would always say. "he could croak or something." Schockley was good about putting things in perspective.

He nudged open the hatch and saw immediately that he was a good ten feet under a deck crammed with diving gear. He eased out and let himself down carefully, climbing down a ladder fastened to the bulkhead. He looked around when he got to the bottom and surveyed the room.

To judge from its shape, he was in some kind of spherical structure. The walls curved out and away on all sides. There were racks of scuba tanks lining the near bulkhead, and several black air pumps beside them. Masks, wet suits, snorkeling gear, flippers, regulators, it was all there, neatly hung from along pegboard on either side of the tank racks. In the center of the room was a tall, cylindrical tube, reaching up through the ceiling and down through the floor.

Jimmy smiled. That has to be the airlock. He knew he would be able to get out that way.

But he was curious now, about the habitat and about the man who insisted he call him Dad. Wouldn't hurt to do a little exploring.

He just didn't want to be around when the Alligator Man came back.

The rest of the room was crammed with metal lockers, lining every remaining inch of the bulkhead and poking out in rows opposite the tank racks. Jimmy Lattimore opened a few: they were stuffed with supplies of every kind imaginable. Food—he pocketed a few candy bars he found in plastic sacks, medicines, cleaning utensils and chemicals. One locker really intrigued him. He stared in bewilderment at the boxes full of tiny, intricately carved statuettes, heavily lacquered figurines of grotesque characters that looked like something out of a kid's nightmares: two-headed snakes, birdmen with delicate veining in their wings, military officers being eaten alive by some kind of serpent, toads and leering spiders and ghastly devil's heads.

Jimmy looked a little closer and realized that one of the statuettes was missing a head. There was a circuit chip sticking out of its neck. It's a miniature radio, he realized. Compact battery, antenna, receiver. What a weird collection of play toys. He shut the locker quickly.

There were other compartments branching off the main room. He peeked into all of them, marveling at the compact efficiency of the head, the lavatory and the shower. He had no idea why "Dad" had gone to so much trouble and care to outfit the place; the cost must have been astronomical. More than ever, he began to wonder. An uneasy flutter started up in his stomach. He decided to descent the spiral staircase and investigate the lower deck.

The bottom half of the sphere was darker and damper than the upper deck. There were puddles of water, freshly made, standing on the tile floor. He looked for a light switch but soon gave up. In the dim glow of the light flooding down from above, he could barely discern the bulky shapes of huge boxes and cartons, stacked against the bulkhead, draped with quilts and cloth. Prowling among the clutter of gear, he found another pantry, this one a mesh-covered box. Empty ballast tanks stood silent sentry around the flange of the airlock skirt, secured by twine to the struts. A huge rubber bladder filled the recess between the airlock and the boxes. There was a cap and nozzle arrangement at the end of a line leading out of the bladder.

Jimmy Lattimore finagled with the nozzle for a moment, then jumped back when gallons of fresh water began pouring out of the hose. He laughed at his nervousness and managed to stopper the valve before too much water was spilled. Dad's fresh water, he thought to himself. He wondered what was in the boxes.

He took a moment to spy outside, through a tiny porthole, just to make sure he was still alone. The water had grown darker in the hours since he had last looked out, whether from failing sunlight he didn't know. It was still silted and turbid, murky and hard to see more than a few feet. He craned to see all sides, noticing for the first time a framework chassis attached to the underside of the sphere that jutted out into the water by the porthole. More supplies, he noted. Wire boxes chained down. He thought for a moment, there was something inside one of the cages...a fleeting glimpse and then it was gone, obscured by the silt. He shuddered, remembering the old fisherman he had seen behind the wheel of that sunken car.

His stomach was distinctly twittering now. He drew back one of the quilts and stood on his tiptoes, unhinging the flaps of the first box. He pulled the top back and—

\--caught his breath—

There was a head, a human head or one so lifelike it looked human, inside the box, resting on a bloodstained pillow. It was a little boy, or had been. His eyes were screwed shut, his cheeks puffed out like he was holding his breath. His lips were sewn together with a violet colored thread and there were crumbs of dirt in his hair, once orange-blond but now putrefying to a greasy sort of gray-black.

Jimmy Lattimore stared in horror for a moment, subconsciously holding his breath, his pulse racing madly. He half expected the little boy's eyes to pop open at any moment but they didn't. He felt a strong urge to reach in and touch the thing, just to see if it was real—the skin was waxy and doughy—but he resisted the impulse and quickly shut the box in disgust. He didn't feel so curious any more.

Time to take my leave, he told himself. He had gooseflesh thinking about the man who had brought him here. He wasn't altogether sure he was a man now.

I owe him my life. But there was no use to thinking that way. He had to get out now, before "Dad" or whoever or whatever he was came back.

He went over to the airlock, found the hatch and studied the mechanism and the dials for a few minutes.

He didn't like his choices and he didn't know how to use the diving equipment on the upper deck either. He figured he'd just have to hold his breath. He didn't know how deep the sphere was and he wasn't completely sure he was on a river bed anyway. He didn't much like the thought of popping out through the airlock and realizing he was out in the middle of the ocean. On the other hand, he had seen his host swimming off, with no untoward effects.

But then "Dad" was a very strange man in a lot of ways.

What would Steen the asshole say if he were here? Jimmy Lattimore smiled at the thought. He'd come around to thinking a little better about the Corporal these last few weeks, since he'd taken his unauthorized vacation. Killing that man in the Seven-Eleven had changed things. He wished his Daddy could have been there to see it.

"What the hell," Jimmy muttered to himself. "Steen'd say do it." He twisted open the hatch handle cautiously and stepped into the airlock. Then he shut the door and secured it.

A little fiddling with the knobs on a wall panel and he soon had water flooding into the compartment from a ring of ports around the base of the cylinder. Jimmy took off his shoes and rolled up the cuffs of his trousers. He eyed the rising water warily, wondering if he had done the right thing. Well, whatever. It was too late now. He tried to concentrate on the hatch controls on the panel; he hoped he had them figured out right.

When the water was nearly to his chin, he couldn't wait any longer. He pressed the plunger marked EXTERIOR and closed his eyes.

Sure enough, the floor of the airlock gave way almost immediately and he drifted down and out of the tube, floundering for purchase until he opened his eyes to a squint and landed feet first on the gridwork of the chassis he had seen.

He was out. Free. He kicked his feet, elated with himself and almost opened his mouth, to shout for joy. But there were other matters to attend to. He pushed himself away from the sphere and for the first time, got a good look at the place he had been taken to.

It was a squat black dome, nearly invisible even from just a few feet away, some fifty or sixty feet in diameter, and stuck on top of a rectangular platform that that rested on four stubby columns buried deeply in the muck. I'll bet no one knows it's even here, he thought.

But first things first. His lungs were beginning to ache and the pressure on his ears was intense. He kicked and flapped himself upward, straining toward the light, aware now that he was no more than thirty feet down and if he could just hold his breath a few seconds longer, he'd break the surface and everything would be okay. Rising upward, he grinned, pleased with himself for not having panicked like he always did in the water fights they used to have in camp. He'd always hated camp, hated everything about it. It was worse than the Marines. I could go back now, though. I could really go back and show 'em.

He popped through the surface and lay floundering, gasping for air, while he got his bearings. He was dismayed that the shore seemed so far away. He could sort of swim, more like a dog paddle, but he was tired on top of it and there were shapes along the shore, humps slithering off into the water even as he watched.

He didn't waste another second getting out of there.

When he had made the opposite bank at last, he lay on his back in a bed of wet leaves and coughed and gagged for a few minutes, trying to get his breath back. His head was spinning and he was sore everywhere. But he was safe at last and thankful to be on solid ground. He had never been cut out for a fish's life.

He dragged himself up, peeling off his shirt and stumbled into the forest, groggy and exhausted. It was growing dark and he had no idea where he was. For lack of a better idea, he decided to follow the river upstream for a while; maybe there would be a shack or a boat or something and someone to help him back to town. The idea seemed inviting now; he'd planned to turn himself in to that Colonel Dunn before those jokers in the Jeep had come by. It still seemed like a good idea.

He walked for what seemed like hours, growing hungrier and limping badly. The bullet wound in his thigh now throbbed with every step and he stopped often to rest his leg, checking the dressing to see if it was still secure. He remembered the candy bars he had taken from "Dad's" lockers. He sat himself down and fished the chocolates out, then groaned at the sight. They were soggy and ruined from his trip up to the surface. He flung the wrappers away in disgust.

The sun was going down and Jimmy Lattimore did not want to be caught alone in the woods after dark. Already, the floor of the forest was shrouded and gloomy. He got painfully to his feet and trudged on, always careful to keep the river in sight. He prayed to God a boat would come soon.

Night had come when he stumbled on the shack. He reconnoitered the dilapidated hut for several minutes before realizing that it was the same shack where he had first encountered those orange lights moving underwater. The first time he had run into the Alligator Man. There was still no sign of life but at least he knew where he was now.

He chuckled gamely. That trail I left running away from here is probably still around. What was more, he distinctly remembered passing a lumber yard on his flight. It couldn't be more than ten or fifteen minutes' walk. And there might be a car there. Or people.

He set off, hoping he was following the right path.

It took longer than expected, but he found the P & W Lumber Company sign alongside Gallivant Road and turned up the dirt lane with a tingling sense of anticipation. His leg was practically numb from the walk; he might have been floating for all he knew. The wound was bleeding again as well, a spreading red stain that he preferred to avoid looking at. He'd lost a good bit of blood since leaving the shack and he knew he was getting weaker.

The glint of metal through the pine foliage was the most welcome sight he had seen in days. He came into a clearing, in the middle of which sat a large, square corrugated steel building. P & W Sawmill Operations, said the sign over the front entrance. Jimmy Lattimore couldn't have cared less. Through the wire fence surrounding the property, he saw a small fork lift.

Now, if I can just get over the fence.

He managed the climb, though not without a lot of pain, and soon found himself sitting in the ragged seat of a medium Clark 2000 fork truck, pondering the gears and levers. He had no key and debated the possibility of hot wiring the machine. He slid tenderly out of the seat and pulled back the engine cowling to see.

A few minutes' finagling and the machine thundered into life, the stench of its propane gas filling the air with a white cloud that made him gag for a moment. He hadn't spent two weeks in Motor Depot Maintenance with that freckled twerp Kirby without learning something. He grinned at himself and hoisted his numb body back up into the seat. There were two levers for the lift frame itself and a complicated looking gear mechanism. He let off the brake and tapped the gas. The machine lurched ahead and went crashing through the wire fence, metal posts clanging noisily off the forks in front. But it wasn't long before he had the hang of it and once he was sure he could see through the lifts well enough to drive the thing, he rumbled over onto the dirt lane and went bumping along down toward the road.

He'd figure out the way back to town somehow.

3.

It was near onto midnight when he staggered up the front steps of the house with the mailbox marked simply DUNN. It was a cluttered looking place, wagons and bikes and balls scattered all around the front yard. He swayed unsteadily; he'd had to walk again when the fork lift ran out of gas somewhere this side of the Highway 21 bridge. He knew he was on Sandy Creek Road and little else.

He knocked on the door, lightly at first, then a little more firmly.

It was some minutes before the porch light came on, momentarily blinding him and he heard the chain and lock being undone. The door swung back and he stood face to face with a stocky, slightly bow-legged man, with thick black curly hair and heavy eyebrows. He was groggy and scowling with interrupted sleep, and naked from the waist up.

'Who the hell're you?" he grunted. He squinted and rubbed a dark stubble on his chin.

Lattimore caught himself from falling by clinging to the door jamb. He moistened his lips; his voice cracked coming out. "Uh, Jim—James Lattimore, sir. Private First Class." He was so feeble he almost collapsed at the sound of his own voice. "I think you've been lookin' for me."

Colonel Dunn screwed up his eyes in a look of pain. He took a deep breath, shook his head and groaned. "I ain't—who'd you say you were?"

"I been AWOL, sir. I'm reporting back to duty."

Dunn's eyes popped open hearing that and he straightened up, hitching up his pajama bottoms as if he were in uniform. He scrutinized Lattimore from head to foot, silently nodding, his lips fluttering with ragged breath. He had been drinking, Jimmy Lattimore noticed. Something more than just beer.

Dunn raised a thick, hairy finger in Lattimore's face. "You're..?"

Lattimore nodded. "Yes, sir."

Dunn stiffened. His face darkened. "I ought to throttle the life out of you right here. What you did...to my wife...I—"

"No, sir, Colonel. I didn't do anything to your wife. It was the Alligator Man. I seen it."

Dunn coughed. "The what? What the hell are you talking about?"

"The Alligator Man, Colonel. I seen him. I know where he is. The white witch doctor."

The Colonel said no more. He grabbed Lattimore by the collar and pulled him into the house, into a small, wood-paneled den with newspapers and Styrofoam cups and Kentucky Fried Chicken boxes littering the floor and the chairs. He shut the door behind him and pushed Lattimore toward the couch. It was green and white plaid, on top of darker green vinyl. A bad job of reupholstering, Jimmy thought. He sat down.

Dunn stood in front of the door, chewing his lips, beating a fist into the palm of his other hand. "You know what you deserve, don't you, son?"

Lattimore blinked at the threat. "Yes, sir, but—"

"Daddy?" A pair of faces appeared in the doorway of a darkened hall. A boy and a girl, standing together. "Daddy, who is it?"

"Go to bed!" Dun ordered. "You get to bed right now before I whale the tar out of both of you!" They vanished with a frightened scuffle of feet, as quickly as they had appeared. Dunn shambled over to a scuffed up record cabinet and pulled out a half-drained bottle of whiskey. He swallowed a few gulps, coughing harshly when he was through and then took the bottle with him to the coffee table in front of the couch. He kicked at the rug with annoyance when it bunched up on him, and sat down heavily in a leather recliner.

"I think you are in deep trouble, Mister. What's this shit about an Alligator Man?"

Lattimore eyed the whiskey longingly, but the Colonel made no move to offer any. He licked his lips. "I know where he can be found, Colonel. That's the God's truth, so help me. It was him that killed your wife and that other woman. I saw it."

Dunn regarded him coldly. "You saw Denise—you saw what happened?"

Jimmy nodded glumly. "Yes, sir, I did. It was...bad. Real bad. I was going to turn myself in after that but...I couldn't, somehow. I had some things to do. I had to think about—stuff." He stared down at the patterns in the rug. Little green fish stared up at him. "Colonel, I killed a man."

Dunn said nothing, scratching his nose with the rim of the bottle."

"At that store. The Seven-Eleven. I don't know why now." He couldn't look up.

Dunn studied the boy for many minutes, appraising the human wreckage that sat on the other side of the coffee table. He'd never had much feeling for grunts like Lattimore; it was the lifers, the officers, that made the Corps go. They were the heart and the guts of the whole machine. He'd seen lots of Jimmy Lattimores in his twenty-two years in the Marines; they never changed. You could get more loyalty and use out of an old bloodhound.

"You say you seen this white witch doctor kill my wife?"

"Yes, sir. And I know where he is now. I can take you to him."

Dunn snorted and finished off the bottle. "You're full of shit, mister, you know that. What little respect I might have had for a man who would turn himself in to the authorities, knowing he had done wrong, just vanished. I think you're a little too old to be telling me bedtime stories."

"It ain't no story!" Jimmy blurted out. "Sir." He clenched his fists. "I been to his hideout. It's underwater, under this great big river, near an old sawmill. He kidnapped me, see, I was going to be shot by these three men in a Jeep. Right after I ran out of that church—"

"Save it, son. It sounds like a great movie, but I'm not buying." He leaned over and snatched up a phone that had been lying on the floor by the front window. He dialed a number, keeping his eye on Jimmy Lattimore the whole time. "Hello? This is...what, yeah. This is Guy Dunn. I need to talk to the Sheriff. What? Yeah, I'll wait." He settled back in his chair and yawned. "Verne's getting laid and I interrupted. Hey, Verne? Is that you? Look, this is Guy Dunn. Sorry to interrupt your sleep but I got a guy over here at my place I think you'll be interested in. It's that Lattimore kid, the one that went AWOL. That's right. Now you know Marine regs say I have to get him back to bas as soon as possible. You want to question him first?" Jimmy Lattimore's heart sank. This wasn't working out at all like he planned. They were more interested in him than the real killer. "Right," Dunn was saying. "I'll see he doesn't go anywhere. Sure thing. See you shortly." He hung up and looked blandly at the boy. Jimmy knew that look—the OFFICER look. He slumped back in the couch. "Sheriff's got a few questions for you, son."

"Colonel?"

"Yeah?"

"I want you to know why I turned myself in."

Dunn folded his arms over his hairbelly and smirked with sarcasm. "Let me guess: your puny little worm's conscience was bothering you and you just couldn't take it anymore."

"Colonel, I'm serious. I came back for protection."

Dunn's eyes narrowed. Something in his voice—"You high on something?"

Lattimore shook his head. "No, sir. I came back because the Alligator Man's after me now. I seen too much of what he is, what he's done. I escaped from his hideout when he wasn't there. If it hadn't—"

"Where'd you get that leg wound?"

"Like I told you, these men were going to kill me and the Alligator Man saved me. Then he decided he could use me. I was to be a courier or something."

Dunn sighed. He clucked sympathetically. "You may wish you'd stayed put after I'm through with you." He burped long and loud and made a strenuous effort to stand up. "You know that son?"

4.

Vernon Tatum made sure the Lattimore kid was securely tucked away in the back seat of his police cruiser. He got in behind the wheel and shut the door. Guy Dunn leaned in over the window.

"It's strictly against regs, Verne, what I'm doing. You got to have him back here by sun-up."

Tatum snorted and started the engine. "The boy may know something about all these murders, Guy. I'm going to check out part of his story anyway. If he can show me where this hideout is, it'll go a long way toward getting to the bottom of this mess.

"You don't want to fight the Marines, believe me."

Tatum leveled a fierce gaze at the Colonel. "I'll fight the Pope and Betty Crocker if I have to, buster. We got laws in this county and it's my job to enforce 'em. Understand?"

Dunn held up his hand. "Just so you know my position. I'm on your side, Sheriff. But I haven't seen much progress on my wife's case lately."

Tatum scowled. "Sometimes, the law works in strange ways, my friend. See you later." He backed right out, almost before Dunn could move out of the way. They sped off down Sandy Creek. Dunn spat in the grass and stalked back into his house. He knew there was another bottle of that damned gut-gas somewhere in the kitchen.

Tatum had listened carefully to the whole of Jimmy Lattimore's story in Dunn's front yard. He wasn't saying he believed all of it but there were things about the account that seemed to fit, like his florid description of the Alligator Man himself and the way he behaved, and some of the detail about his underwater hideaway. In general, he didn't think the boy capable of that much imagination. But it was the tale of finding the little child's head that really did it.

Verne Tatum's mouth had gone dry when he heard that. He knew full well it was the head of his murdered grandson.

"Sheriff?" The voice pricked his bubble of thought like a needle. "Sheriff, can I ask you a question?"

Tatum looked up in the rear view mirror. He saw the pale face of a scared little boy. "Sure."

Lattimore cleared his throat. "What's going to happen to me now?"

"That all depends. You already admitted killing a man. 'Course I don't have that down on paper yet. You went AWOL from the Marines. I have a feeling they don't much like that sort of thing."

Lattimore smiled back at him in the mirror, a weak smile. "No, sir, they don't."

"Then, there's the matter of a few thefts, possession of stolen goods, unauthorized use of firearms, that sort of thing."

"You know I stole some orange sodas from that church where I spent the night."

Tatum sighed. "I'll make sure it is noted that you are cooperatin' with the law."

That seemed to satisfy him and he sank back in the seat and was silent.

They hadn't been riding for five minutes when a pair of figures stepped out from the side of the road right into the glare of Tatum's headlights. He slammed on the brakes and swerved to miss them. The cruiser locked up and skidded on a patch of sand, streaking right by them, passing only inches away. When they had come to a stop sideways in the middle of the road, Tatum scrambled out of the car and stared back up the road.

"Good grief," he muttered.

It looked like Sarah Millen. And her daughter Kim.

He called after them but they kept on walking, seeming not to hear, mother and daughter hand in hand. Tatum called again, then turned back to Lattimore. "You stay right where you are, son. Don't get any ideas."

He hustled after the women.

"Sarah? Sarah Millen?" He had to grab her shoulders and spin her around before she would stop. He was appalled at the look on her face.

There were hideous bruises all over her cheeks and forehead, livid lumps dark and angry even in the wan light of early morning. Her eyes were bloodshot, fixed in a glassy stare that chilled Tatum. The robe she had been wearing, at one time a tan chiffon thing with lace cuffs, was torn and slashed in many places and caked with mud. She limped slightly and she clutched her daughter's hand with weary determination. She gave no sign of even seeing the Sheriff.

"Sarah? Are you all right? It's mighty early to be out prowling these back roads."

Tatum blanched at the appearance of her daughter. The calloused hide had spread to virtually all parts of her body now, making her look like something out of a terrarium. She bore no obvious bruises like her mother—but she offered the same vacant face as her mother, scarcely even blinking. She had the disconcerting habit of playing her tongue all over her lips and face though, like she was thirsty.

Tatum squeezed Sarah's hand. "Sarah—Mrs. Millen—I think we'd better be getting you back to your place. It ain't far from here. You just hold my hand there. I'll drive ya'll back."

He led them back to his car, step by reluctant step. Jimmy Lattimore's eyes widened at their approach.

Can't say I blame you, son, he thought, as Lattimore moved over in the back seat to make room for Kim. Sarah got in the front.

He fired up the engine and pulled out into the road. The Millen house was just around the turn.
Chapter 17

1.

"Sarah?"

She felt hands, strong hands, touching her, caressing her face, a man's hands sliding across her cheeks and temples. She fought it at first, an animal reaction, automatic fear taking over but they persisted and she was so tired. Her muscles complained at the command to move and refused to obey and she sunk back, weakly opening her eyes. She wouldn't fight, whatever came.

"Sarah? It's me, honey. It's Bart. You okay? Can you hear me?"

She forced her eyes open more fully, letting the strong morning sunlight flood in. She had to squint, but yes, it was Bart. It didn't look like an apparition. She tried to smile but she imagined it came out more like a grimace.

"Bart...." Her throat was dry; it felt like dust.

"I'm here, right here. You just like back and rest. The doctor says you're gonna be okay. You want anything? Can I--?"

"Some...water...."

"I've got water right here." He pressed a plastic cup to her lips. Some of the water dribbled out and down her chin. She drank greedily, and asked for more. Then, despite his protests, she forced herself to sit up straighter in bed. That was a mistake; the room spun crazily for a few seconds.

"Where's...where's Kim?"

Bart's brow furrowed and he leaned forward to kiss her on the forehead. She noticed he was unshaven and smelled of some kind of antiseptic. "She's fine. Don't worry about her." It was a lie, but he didn't want her getting upset just yet.

Sarah seemed satisfied with that for the moment. She tried some more water and Bart had to refill the glass. "Are you hungry? Doctor Macklin said you could eat when you woke up. Said it would be good for you."

She moved to throw back the sheets but Bart gently pressed her back against the pillow. "You're not going anywhere. Just like down."

"I have to get up," she murmured.

"Lie still. You rest." He hovered over her, with that commanding kind of stare, the set to his lips, that she had always loved. She remembered her mother scoffing at that. You can't marry a man for his lips, Sarah. That's stupid. Well, she had, in a way.

"Bart?"

"What?"

She moistened her own lips and found herself staring right into his nose. She'd always told him his eyes looked like gun sights. "Bart, I think I was raped."

For a moment, he sat there, half on, half off the bed, poised like a stone sculpture. He cleared his throat and put two fingers on her lips. "Dr. Macklin gave you a thorough examination, honey. Head to toe. He says you must have taken a bad fall, chasing after Kim like that. Where were you?"

It wasn't a dream, her mind screamed. Even now, looking up at Bart, she could feel the snorting, slobbering thing getting inside her, rummaging around until she thought she'd be ripped apart. Her spine still ached from the penetration and she shuddered.

"Down at the beach. By that shrimpers' bar."

"Jephart's?"

She nodded. "I followed Kim there. She managed to get out, after you'd locked her in. I found her down there, Bart, oh God, it was awful she was being, she was being—"

Bart pulled her close and buried her head against his shoulders. "Shhh. Just try to rest now." Whatever she had seen, or thought she had seen, it had scared her badly.

Her voice trickled out from the folds of his shirt, muffled, unsteady.

"Bart, what are we going to do?" She pushed herself away, tears making tracks down her puffy face. "What can we do? I'm scared. Confused. Maybe I'm cracking up."

He shook his head, sitting up straight, taking a deep breath. She recognized the symptoms of a big decision on the way.

"I think, maybe, this time you're right, Sarah. We should take Kim up to the County Clinic. For more extensive tests. Observation. While you were asleep, I had a long talk with Dr. Macklin."

"What did he say?"

"Well, there's a man at the Clinic. James Givens, Dr. Givens. He's a psychiatrist and he's supposed to be a specialist in childhood trauma and things like that. He spends a lot of time with disturbed children."

"Oh, Bart...."

"I know." He fiddled nervously with the ends of his moustache. "I don't like it either. But Macklin suggested that it was possible Kim's skin—condition, whatever you want to call it—could be psychologically induced. She may have suffered some extreme trauma, some terrible fright that she just can't tell us about. Her mind's blocked it out and the pressures are building up and manifesting themselves in other ways." He groped under the sheets for her hand and squeezed it. "I think we should take her up there."

Sarah stared down at the outline of her legs under the sheets. Bony toothpicks, she thought. "She won't like it. How long are these tests?"

Bart shrugged. "Macklin didn't know for sure. But we'd have to leave her there for a few days. They'd want to observe her day and night. It's part of the process."

"I suppose it's for the best." She sighed and reached for the water cup but it was empty. Bart didn't seem to notice. "What do we do if they don't find anything wrong with her?"

Bart stopped fiddling with his moustache. He stood up and got some water for himself.

"I don't know. I really don't."

There was a long silence, while Bart drained the cup and refilled it. For the first time, Sarah noticed how deep the lines around his eyes were. He had always been a dark, trim man from the days they had first dated. He had always been in control, even in those bleak, sleepless months after the accident. She remembered that the Navy was dredging that up again; he was due to leave for Washington in two weeks. But there were more lines than ever now, pavement cracks, spreading out from his eyes, marring the tight perfection of that deeply tanned face. He looked old, genuinely old, for the first time in their marriage.

"Sarah, I want to ask you something."

"What is it?"

He sat back down on the bed, this time keeping his distance. "What was it you think you saw, down at Jephart's last night? I want to know."

"Even if I dreamed it?"

"I never said you dreamed it."

"You didn't believe me. I could tell that."

"Are you going to tell me or what?"

Sarah pulled the sheets up to her chin and narrowed her eyes. "Even I'm not sure what happened. It was so dark."

"You said you thought you were raped."

"I know. That's the part I'm least sure about. I mean I ache and its hurts raw and my legs are bruised but—"

"What?"

She suddenly pressed the sheets to her mouth and nearly choked on them.

"There's one thing I am sure about."

Bart said nothing.

"I didn't imagine what happened to Kim. She was down there on the beach, Bart, I swear to God she was. And there were thousands of huge turtles and alligators and I don't know what else and she was in the sand and she was being raped by them, my own daughter, was being made love to by those...animals. It was hideous...it was—" She shook her head slowly. "It was...I couldn't think right. I just acted, like a robot. Do you see what I'm saying: my daughter, our Kim, was having sex with...oh, Christ, I don't know. I don't know what to think anymore. But I didn't imagine that, Bart, I swear I didn't."

Her husband sat impassively on the edge of the bed, doodling imaginary figures on the sheet. After a moment, he looked up at her.

"I don't think you did either."

2.

Kim resisted being taken to the Clinic. Bart had expected that and was ready for it. They had sat together, as a family, at the breakfast table, the five of them, and talked the whole business out. Julie and Dean had remained silent the entire time, Dean poking absent-mindedly at bits of bacon on his plate. Sarah had tried to reason with her daughter but it was plain to see she was beyond control now; her worsening appearance had made her snappish and crude and prone to bursts of obscenities. Bart threatened to slap her to the floor if she didn't mind her tongue. Sarah looked on distraught, sensing how far her daughter had drifted away.

She didn't know if they could get her back.

It came down to physical force, as Bart had warned Sarah it might. She had tried to prepare herself for it, but the sight of Kim being literally dragged kicking and screaming and cursing like a Marine into the front seat of the car unnerved her deeply. She came along only because Bart needed someone to sit on the other side, to make sure she didn't try to jump out.

Sarah was mad at herself for being hesitant about riding with them to the Clinic. It was disturbing to think that she too was beginning to put some distance between herself and her daughter. She sat back in the seat, while Bart drove them through town, conscious of how tough and pitted Kim's arms were, locked through her own so the girl couldn't squirm her way free.

It's just like the measles, she told herself. Or when she had chicken pox. Nothing more than that.

She repeated the thought, all the way to the Clinic. The words became more hollow each time.

Bay County Clinic was an almond-colored glass and brick building, five stories high and arranged in a pleasant campus setting on the other side of the Gage River, a few blocks south of Gallivant Road. Bart parked the Chevy in the Visitors' lot and firmly pulled Kim into the outpatient wing, where they were scheduled to meet Dr. Givens a little after ten a.m. She resisted for a while, then gave up, resigned to her fate. Sarah walked alongside, carrying an overnight bag with clothes and a toothbrush and a few items from her purse. She had put a few books inside the bag too; one of them was the Bible her mother had given her when she was six years old. It had always been a good luck charm; Sarah knew it worked. It saved Mama's life when Daddy went crazy that night.

Kim saw her looking down and made an ugly face at her mother. "I hate you," she hissed. "I hate both of you." She cried when Bart's grip on her hand tightened. But her expression never changed.

Sarah's throat constricted and she looked away. She bit her lip and said nothing.

They had a brief wait by the central desk, while Bart signed insurance and admittance papers. Dr. Givens showed almost immediately, a short, bearded rodent of a man, with black glasses that were forever slipping down his nose. He shook hand with Bart, then stooped down to have a talk with Kim.

"We'll run some tests this morning and see just what's causing this problem. How do you feel now?"

Kim glared back at him, a hard, thin smile on her face. "Like shit."

"Kim—" Sarah grabbed her daughter's hand.

"You watch your tongue," Bart warned her.

"Honestly," Sarah said. "I'm sorry, Dr. Givens. She just hasn't been—"

Givens took off his glasses and chewed on the frames thoughtfully. He stood up. "It's all right. We'll be doing some blood and urine tests this morning. A skin scrape, too, I imagine. How's her appetite been lately?"

"Sporadic," Sarah said. "She's developed a taste for fish, she didn't have that before. And real hard candy."

"Hmmm."

"Do you think you can treat it, Doctor?" Bart asked.

Givens scratched his beard. A few hairs fell out and drifted to the floor. "Probably. We've encountered cases similar to this before. Not quite so far advanced."

"What do you think's wrong?"

He shrugged and put on a bland professional face. "Hard to say. Until we get some test results, it would just be a guess. You understand we'll need to keep her for a few days."

Kim tried to wrench herself out of Bart's grasp but he held her firm. She twisted her own arm until it hurt. Bart yanked her back and shot her a "behave yourself" glance. "We're prepared for that. We brought a bag for her."

"I HATE IT!" Kim screamed at the top of her lungs. She lunged for Gives' arm, intending to fasten her teeth to his skin but he moved out of reach just in time. Bart jerked her back to her feet. "I hate it! I hate it! I hate it!"

"Kim—" Sarah was embarrassed at the stares of the others in the waiting lobby. "Kim, hush."

"He's coming, you know," she went on, squirming like a puppy on a leash. "He is. I can feel him in me."

"Bart, can't you—"

Bart and Dr. Givens each took an arm and carried her to the elevators. Sarah hustled after them with Kim's luggage. They rode up to the fourth floor and put her in the private room they had reserved. It opened onto a view of the Gage River and the restful green of a forest.

Kim had quieted down by the time they had the bed unmade. A tall blond nurse started to help her undress but scratched her and she backed away with a thin line of blood trickling down her forearm.

Dr. Givens watched the scene for a few seconds, while two other nurses arrived, then took Bart and Sarah and firmly ushered them out of the room.

"She'll be just fine, I promise. They'll give her a sedative straight away."

Sarah's lips trembled. Bart felt his wife squeezing his hands hard. "I don't mind telling you I'm scared, Dr. Givens. She's...she seems to be getting worse." Bart squeezed back and drew her closer.

Givens nodded. "She's probably ingested some mild psychotropic toxin. May I ask if she's been taking any medication lately. For her skin?"

"Ointments and lotions, that's all. What we can get in the drugstore."

"Do you think your daughter has ever experimented with drugs, Mrs. Millen? In school, say, or elsewhere?"

Sarah swallowed hard. She would never believe that. "No, Doctor. Not my children. They know better."

Givens smiled faintly. "Of course. Well, I think we've done about all there is to do for now. It would be best if you two went on about your business today. I'll be in touch this afternoon. Let you know what the preliminary tests show. Okay?"

Sarah wanted to linger and be reassured. She wanted to be with Kim but Bart put his arms around her shoulders. "Come on, honey. We'd better leave them alone. We'll just be in the way today."

"I feel so...I don't know, helpless."

"That's perfectly natural," Givens told her. They walked back to the elevator, passing a trio of nurses rushing the other way. She shuddered when she saw them push open the door and dash inside. A low, anguished wail drifted out, an animal cry of desperation. Sarah started to go, but Bart held her back. Givens stood by sympathetically.

"Let's go home, Sarah," Bart said.

Givens helped her into the elevator and reached inside to press the button for the lobby floor. "It's best if you leave her for a while. She needs some rest."

"I'll even help you refinish that end table we picked up last month. I'll call Howard Dilbey and tell him I can't make it in this morning."

Sarah didn't reply. She hadn't even heard him. The dull echo of her daughter's cries filled her with a cold dread.

3.

They spent the rest of the morning in the carport, rubbing a lustrous coat of varnish on the walnut table they'd found at the dockside flea market that sprang up every Saturday morning during the summer. They said little to each other, each preferring to work off tension in the physical labor of hand rubbing the old finish off, then drying down the old wood and applying the varnish. Bart watched his wife at work—she wore old, paint-stained cut-off jeans and a red polka-dotted tube top—and worried about her. She was quickly bathed in sweat, going at the wood with a mindless fury, and he was afraid she would dehydrate from losing so much fluid in the stifling confines of the carport.

He made sure she ate and drank properly during lunch. Thank God, Julie and Dean are out, he told himself. She needed something to take her mind off children for a while.

"How's about we go shopping for linens this afternoon?" he asked her. She was just finishing her iced tea and the breeze blowing across the screened porch from the woods out back was fresh and cooling.

Sarah ran her fingers along the wicker arm of her rocking chair. "You don't have to do that. You know you hate to go shopping. Besides, Lucius is coming over this afternoon to do the yard."

"Oh, that's right. I'd forgotten." He crunched some ice from his own tea, watching the breeze move the rusty swing he had hung from a stout oak limb last year. It creaked back and forth. "We haven't quite finished the table."

"It needs to dry before we put on another coat."

She was right, of course. "You trying to get rid of me?"

Sarah cracked a brief smile. She glanced in his direction, then fished the lemon out of her tea and sucked on it for a moment. "No, silly. I just know you'd rather be down at the store. Why don't you go on?"

"Well—"

"I'll be okay. Really. I may just get out there and help Lucius in the garden."

"If you're sure—"

"Go to work, husband. You need this job, remember?"

Bart chuckled and got up. He bent down to plant a quick peck on her forehead. "Call me if you hear anything from Dr. Givens."

She closed her eyes and sighed, groping for his hand. "You know I will. I'll be all right."

With that, Bart went back to their bedroom, dressed for work in a cream-colored blazer and dark blue slacks, and left. Sarah sat quietly in the rocking chair for some time afterward.

Her musing was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. She got up and went through the house to see who it was.

Lucius Wright was a spindly twelve-year old who had been doing most of their yard work this spring and summer. He'd been highly recommended by Guy and Denise. Sarah opened the door, upset with herself for jogging the memory of what had happened to her neighbor. She had tried hard to bury the thought of Denise's death; she'd almost succeeded but the pain erupted from time to time and whenever it did, she would feel miserable for hours afterward. She was frowning when she opened the front door.

Lucius stood there in a cut-off T-shirt and white jeans. He wore a red bill cap that said Allis Chalmers on the front.

"Eb'nin, Miz Millen. Yoonah grass need the cuttin' this week?" He rocked subconsciously on the balls of his feet, like a cat ready to pounce.

Sarah stepped out onto the front porch. "I think it's about time, don't you, Lucius? Mr. Millen would like you to trim the front and side bushes back today too. You know where the tools are?"

"Yes'm."

She noticed a plastic jug he was carrying in one hand. It was full of liquid.

"I see you brought some lemonade with you."

Lucius lowered his head and attempted to hide the jug behind his leg. "Dis'n better'n lemonade, Miz Millen. Make me tingle sometime." He had a crooked sort of grin when he looked up.

Sarah folded her arms. "Oh. I see. Well, would you like a sandwich before you start? It's past noon."

"No'm. I et 'for I come here." He cocked his head. "You feelin' poorly today, Miz Millen?"

Sarah brushed back her curls and sighed. "Does it show that much? I guess the heat's got me down." She wanted to blurt out that her daughter had just been confined for a few days in the Clinic, prognosis unknown. She wanted to stand on the front porch and scream at the top of her lungs that it was wrong, it was unfair, let us alone for God's sake. There were times when she was sure they were being stalked—it was a palpable feeling, fluttering in the stomach, flicking the heart from time to time with cold dead fingers. She wanted to take Lucius Wright by the shoulders and shake him and make him, make someone, understand, that she was not losing her mind, that their world really was falling apart and that they would never have the kind of peace a family needs to grow on. "What is it out there? Who are you...?"

Lucius was staring up at her with a quizzical look on his face. "You gon' be okay today, Miz Millen?"

Sarah nodded glumly. "I'm sorry. I was thinking out loud."

She went down the front steps and stood by the azaleas they had planted along the front walk. The first things we planted when we moved here. They were faded and wilting from the dry, hot weather. "Where do you want to start, Lucius?"

The boy put his jug underneath the glider on the front porch, to keep it out of the sun. "I do the grass first. Then I rake up and do the bushes."

"That sounds fine." She thought for a moment. She didn't much want to go back into the house. Lucius was company. It was sweltering, pushing ninety-five, outside today but if she changed into a bathing suit and that Panama hat, it might be bearable. And there was some weeding to be done in the front bed; she and Bart had discussed the possibility of transplanting some hollies from around back, where they might get more sun. "You know what, Lucius?"

"What?"

"I think I'll work out in the yard today, too. I could bring a radio out and we could listen to some music. How would you like that?"

Lucius shrugged. "Okay. It be mighty hot out here."

"That's all right. If I get thirsty, I'll take a swig out of your jug. How about that?"

His eyes widened for a moment, then a huge grin spread across his face. This lady was all right. "I got 'nuf."

"Great." Sarah rubbed her hands together, grateful for someone to talk to. "I'll go change and be right back." She went back into the house and Lucius set to work, gassing up the lawn mower.

Almost an hour had passed before the two of them decided to take a break and get out of the sun. Sarah had filled several wire baskets full of weeds and dumped them into sacks to be left by the street for pickup. She was a bit dizzy from the heat and her arms and legs burned with sun and mosquito bites. She stood up and rubbed a terry-cloth towel all over her face and neck. She'd soaked it long and good in cold water before coming out to work, but it was dry now. I could drink a tank car, she thought to herself. She went hunting for Lucius, now doing the side yard. She found him trudging along the edge of the creek bank, plowing the mower through some of the higher grass.

"How about a break!" she yelled into his ear, over the whine of the mower.

Lucius had stripped off his T-shirt and tied it in a knot around his forehead, like a bandanna. He nodded quickly, cut the motor and wiped his mouth with the crusty edge of the makeshift scarf. She could see he was hot and thirsty.

They decided to sack out on the screened porch. Sarah made some half-sandwiches, peanut butter and jelly, and brought out a pitcher of grape drink and a portable electric fan, which she plugged into a socket by the door. She sat down wearily in her rocking chair. Lucius sprawled out on the bench by the picnic table. His face was bright and shiny with sweat.

He uncapped his jug and took a deep swallow, grimacing as it went down. Sarah couldn't help but laugh.

"I think I'll stay with my grape drink for now," she said, when he held the jug out. "You're a little young to be in to that stuff."

Lucius grinned and took another gulp. "I be drinkin' this since 'for I was in school. It makes the skeeters die when they bites me."

Sarah laughed out loud at that. Lucius munched on a sandwich for a moment.

"It be quiet around here today."

Sarah looked up. "Well, Julie's off to the beach with her boyfriend for the day. Dean's at softball practice."

When she said nothing more, Lucius untied the T-shirt from his forehead and wadded it up into a ball. He stuck it in the back pocket of his jeans. "Kim out too?"

Sarah sighed. "You may as well know the truth, Lucius. Kim's at the hospital."

"She ain't no better from when she was nabbed?"

"No, I'm afraid she's...getting worse." The words stuck in her throat. She drank some more to keep from crying. "They're doing some tests on her up at the Clinic."

"She got the pox?"

Sarah marveled at his directness. "I don't know. The doctors don't know either." She described the condition and the way her daughter had been acting lately. She would never have thought she could have this kind of talk with a twelve-year old boy but Lucius seemed to understand and whenever her words stopped or her voice failed, he would nod and encourage her to go on. She realized, at the end, that she needed to talk it all out with someone understanding.

"So, I guess I no longer know what to think, Lucius. I don't know what to do anymore." She clenched her fists. "It's all so damn...excuse me, so frustrating."

Lucius sat up abruptly and recapped his jug. He sat there hunched over on his knees for a moment, then his face lit up with an idea.

"Miz Millen, you jus' go see Dr. Spider and he'll make you feel better. I know it."

"Who's Dr. Spider?"

"Oh, he lives back in the woods, way back, beyond the rivers. Back where even the crows is 'fraid to go. Mama go see him sometimes when she get mad at Daddy. She say Dr. Spider fix her heart and bring Daddy back from his gallivantin'."

"Sounds spooky. What does this Dr. Spider do to bring your father back?"

Lucius shrugged. "I don' know but it always works. I see Mama keep her bottle of fetchin' powders inside her vanity bench." He looked a little sheepish. "'Course she don' know I seed that...but I bet you my jug Kim's done gone and got hexed for sure. That's when you need Dr. Spider."

Sarah took a thoughtful sip from her glass. "Lucius, that's all just superstition."

"No it ain't. Listen to me. I hear tell of all kinds of stories. Dr. Spider, he powerful. Aint Opal she always sayin' she got to go and find Dr. Spider when her stump start to botherin' her. And she say Dr. Spider is the onliest thing between her and the Alligator Man."

"The Alligator Man? You mean---that story...Daddy X or whatever?"

"Yes'm. That Dr. Spider he got some powerful hexes. It's him that keep the Alligator Man under control most of the time. 'Cept for now, he seems to be out a bit."

"Hmmm." Sarah mulled over the idea. It was ridiculous, of course, but still—she had read once that the human mind could be a powerful ally in the healing process. And whatever it was that had a hold of her daughter worked through her mind, she was sure of that. "How could I get in touch with this Dr. Spider?"

"I don' know, Miz Millen. He don' stay in the same place all the time." He thought for a moment, his chin propped up in a balled fist. "I was chased by the Alligator Man once. It was Cazzie and me—we was fishin' down to Dingle Creek."

"You saw this...Alligator Man?"

His eyes widened. "Yes'm. He almost eat us up for sure. We ran away and then we got to this old cabin. It was an old lady and a bald guy. They's not too far from Dingle Creek. Mama says that's Lettie Hatch and I'm 'sposed to stay away from there. "'Course, I don' do that. You won't tell nobody will you—"

"What? No, no, of course not, Lucius. Lettie Hatch. Why does your mother ask you to stay away?"

"This Lettie Hatch she communes with the plat-eye. The tree monster in the woods...that's what I call it. Mama say she could always find Dr. Spider through Lettie Hatch. She search him out wherever he be."

It was all so bizarre that Sarah felt uncomfortable with the idea. "Yet, she wasn't about to pass up any opportunity to pull Kim out of the pit. She looked over at Lucius.

"Are you telling me a big story?"

He shook his head vigorously. "No'm, no'm. I be saying the truth. You jus' find Dr. Spider and he kin help you. He been helpin' a long, long time."

They were quiet for a while and when the sandwiches were gone and the grape drink finished, Sarah did finally open Lucius' jug and take a sniff of what was inside. She waited until he gone back out to the lawn mower. She scrunched up her nose at the acrid smell. God, that smells like turpentine or ammonia or something. She recapped the jug and put it out on the front porch.

He didn't seem drunk.

She decided to let the rest of the flower beds wait for a cooler part of the day. She needed time to think. With the steady drone of the mower in the background, she lay down on the wooden swing on the screened porch and closed her eyes.

She knew it would take a special approach to make Bart see this her way.

They had friend chicken and rice for dinner that night and the table was uncomfortably quiet as everyone went about the business of eating. They were all keenly aware of the missing place across the table from Julie and Dean. Sarah had left a fork and a knife there with a clean place mat without even thinking. She realized it too late and decided to leave them there.

Dean clinked down his fork and pushed back his chair.

"Where are you going?" Bart asked. "It's your turn to help with the dishes."

"I'm just gonna go watch TV. I missed most of Hogan's Heroes already."

"Okay but don't leave these dishes here all night like you did last time."

"I won't." He trudged off toward the family room, iced tea in hand.

Julie dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. "Excuse me. I've got a phone call to make." She averted her eyes as she got up.

Bart and Sarah always sat at opposite ends of the table, a throwback to the days when Kim and Dean were prone to arguing and throwing things. Bart buttered some bread. "You're mighty quiet tonight, honey. Did you work in the yard any?"

"Some."

The brevity of her reply caused him to look up. He saw she was pushing some rice around her plate with a fork. "Sarah?"

"What?"

"Look at me for a minute."

She complied, reluctantly.

"She's going to be all right. You know she is. Dr. Givens is a good man and she's getting the best care possible."

"I wonder."

"What do you mean?"

"Well," she twisted around uncomfortably in her seat, "I had a long talk with Lucius today."

Bart was puzzled. "So? Looks to me like he did his usual good job."

"It wasn't about the yard—it was about Kim."

It suddenly dawned on him what she was driving at. He got up to pour himself some more tea and grab a few cookies from the jar by the refrigerator. When he sat back down, it was in Kim's old seat. He broke the cookie into several pieces. "What did Lucius have to say about Kim?"

"Bart, I think we should investigate this root medicine. From what Lucius said—"

He held up his hand. "Now, wait just a minute. Stop and think a minute, Sarah. Do you have any idea what you're suggesting?"

She looked at him coldly. "Yes. I think I am fully aware of what I am suggesting. I've given it a lot of thought. The fact is that if the doctors at the Clinic can't do anything positive for my daughter, I want to take her to see this Dr. Spider." She glared at him, daring him to disagree.

"You realize that what you're suggesting is nonsense. You know that whoever is behind all these pranks wants us to do just that."

"I don't think I would call murder and kidnapping pranks, Bart."

"You know what I mean. We're just playing into his hands. Or their hands. It's all hokum, honey, every bit of it. It's a scam and everything's set up so we'll swallow the whole story. Except I'm not buying."

"You think there is no such person as Daddy X? What about the stories, the legends? What about the sightings? You heard what Kris said her daughter saw. What about those awful totems we've gotten in the mail since we moved here?"

"Sarah," he spread his hands, imploring her to understand, "Sarah, listen to me. It's all a gimmick. It's exactly what he wants us to do."

"Who?"

Bart shrugged, leaning back in his chair. He took a sip of the tea. "I don't know...exactly. But I have a theory."

"And meanwhile, your daughter is lying up there at the Bay County Clinic, confined and being tested and poked and probed and probably cursing the day she was born into this family."

"Honey, why are you so insistent on this? You've always been a hard-headed, sensible woman—not like your mother."

Sarah's eyes flashed. Bart swallowed hard, wishing he could retract his words immediately.

She closed her eyes—it was always a sign that she was nearing the end of her patience. "The only thing wrong with Mama was that she had to live with Earl all those years. That has nothing to do with this."

"Forget I said it."

"Can't you just see this old woman—this Lettie Hatch or whatever her name is? What could it hurt? I've read articles in magazines about how powerful folk remedies can be for some people. It could be just what Kim needs. It could be the key to everything. Just last week, in the Sunday magazine section of the paper, there was an article about root medicine. You know there are lot of people around here that swear by it."

Bart thought of Verne Tatum's words. "Not a lot."

Sarah touched his hand with her fingers. "We can't ignore any possibility. I want my child back the way she was, Bart. I don't care if it is hocus-pocus—it's what you believe that matters. I can't rest until we've tried everything. I can't sleep or think or eat or—"

"All right, all right." Bart stood up abruptly. He snatched the glass off the table and downed the tea in one gulp. "I'll do it. For you. But it's a waste of time. Frankly, I'm surprised at you, Sarah, falling for bullshit like this. After all we've been through together...I was pretty sure I knew how your mind worked."

"I want to go too," she said quietly.

"Absolutely not." He stood there, crunching ice angrily, while she glared back at him. She was small and vulnerable in the pool of light at the end of the table. In her yellow summer blouse and jeans, she could have passed for a woman of twenty-five. For the first time, he realized how desperate she had become; he had never noticed her sucking on her fingers like that before. A new nervous habit. Kim wasn't the only one who had changed. He went over to the chair and stooped down beside her. "I'm sorry, honey. I was playing Captain again. Sometimes, I can't help it."

She was reluctant to acknowledge his presence and continued staring at the rice on her plate.

"I want my baby back the way she was," she murmured. "I just want them to leave us alone."
Chapter 18

1.

Sunday came hot and cloudy to Bayville, with the hint of heavy thunderstorms in the air and an oppressive stillness about the town that presaged the fury of the storms to come.

Bart Millen awakened early that morning, rising before Sarah or Julie and had a quiet breakfast with only Dean for company. They had said little to each other, using the low music from the radio on the counter to forestall the possibility of conversation. Twice, Dean looked up from his cereal, about to say something, about to ask about Kim and how she was doing. Both times, he stopped in mid-sentence and fell silent, retreating to his corn flakes and toast. He knew that look on his father's face; he'd seen it often enough lately. Dean Millen had learned long ago that when his father's black moustache stuck out at the ends like it did this morning, it meant only one thing: he was mad and getting madder and it wouldn't be long before he'd be getting somebody good. He didn't plan on being around when that happened, so he quietly excused himself to go outside and finish changing the chain on his bike.

His father said nothing in reply.

Bart cleaned up the dishes absent-mindedly and changed into some beige slacks and gray Navy T-shirt, with the words U.S.S. Tulsa stenciled on the front. He stood before the mirror in the bathroom, the sound of Sarah's light snoring seeping in through the cracked door, and had an idea. Why the hell not, he told himself. He went into the bedroom and rummaged in the closet for an old bill cap, the one he used to wear when he had a submarined under his feet and they were running clean and fast through the water. He found it buried in the back of a shelf, behind some old rags. He put the dark blue cap on, adjusting the bill to the right angle. The Captain's insignia was dull and faded but that didn't matter. The twin dolphins of the Submarine Service and the words "Tulsa" were still plain enough to see.

He knew he would be venturing into foreign waters this morning. He'd always needed to feel the physical weight of his authority when he was on a dangerous mission.

The directions to Lettie Hatch's cabin were none too explicit and Bart spent the better part of Sunday morning turning up one dirt lane and down another, only to find it dead end before revealing anything that even remotely resembled the shack that Lucius Wright had described to Sarah. He knew he was somewhere west of the Broad River but the last road he had been on that was on the map had been Highway 170. He had turned off from that just after crossing the bridge.

He somehow found his way back to 170 and drove for about five minutes, realizing it was just about twelve o'clock. He thought it best to have a bite to eat, if he could find a place open on Sunday, and maybe inquire there if anyone knew how to find the old woman's cabin.

The road made a wide sweeping bend and he whistled past an old white frame house almost before seeing it. There was a portable neon sign out in the front yard: FRIED CATFISH AND OKRA-BASKET FOR $4.50. He slammed on the brakes and backed up, pulling into an open space in the gravel parking lot between two pick-ups. He got out, making sure he didn't leave the little amulet Daddy X had lost in their basement in plain sight. The blue felt packet would be his calling card when he finally found Lettie Hatch.

He ate sparingly in the dining room, preferring to concentrate on the vegetables and biscuits, which were as good as any he had ever tasted. There were several tables set up in the back room. Most were full, one with five people, just back from church it looked like. Bart couldn't help but smile at the way the children squirmed in their Sunday clothes, trying to avoid getting grease and ketchup all over themselves.

When he was through, he went to the cashier's table, a flower-bedecked old antique desk with a huge brass cash register dominating the top. An elderly white-haired lady wearing a lilac blouse and white carnation beamed up at him. She took the check and rang it up expertly on the register.

"Was everything satisfactory?"

"Yes, thank you. Just what I needed."

"That'll be $4.75."

Bart handed her a five and she made change.

"I wonder if I might ask you a question?"

The lady nodded. "Certainly."

"I'm trying to find a certain house that I know happens to be in this area and I just can't seem to get to the right road."

The lady was carefully placing the check over a spike and cork board that held all her paid bills. "Out visiting? It's a beautiful day for that. I hear we may have showers though. Who are you looking for?"

"Lettie Hatch."

At the mention of her name, the lady's face dropped its gracious smile and darkened, only momentarily. She recovered quickly and slowly shut the register drawer with the tips of her fingers. She steepled her hands together and placed them precisely in her lap.

"You have business with Lettie Hatch?"

"Yes. I do. Important business."

Her eyebrows lifted a bit. "I see." She cleared her throat and the directions that followed were offered in a low, conspiratorial whisper, as if the conversation were not fit for the dining room.

"There is a road, east of here. You turn right, leaving the parking lot. You have to watch the way the creek flows on the side of the road. When the gully starts to widen and becomes a pool instead of a creek, you'll find a grass culvert, off to your right. It's about two, maybe two and a half miles from here. Turn over that culvert and drive as far as you can—don't get out of your car until you have to."

"Why not?"

The lady's smile had become a smirk. "There are creatures, you see—"

"Then what do I do, when I can't drive any further?"

"You must walk. There's a path, beaten down. Follow it."

Bart waited for more, but the lady had said all she intended to. "That's it?"

"That's it."

"Have you ever been there before?"

The lady began to straighten the edges of the paid bills. "I hope you enjoyed your dinner, sir. Come again, please." She did not look up again and Bart understood the conversation was over. He left and got into his car. It was like an oven inside, even though he had left it parked in the shade.

Two miles, he told himself. Two and a half. Where the roadside gully starts to widen.

He grinned to himself, as he pulled out onto the highway. It sounded awfully foolish when you said it out loud.

He found the culvert in good order, after driving past it several times. It was nearly invisible behind a heavy snarl of vines and underbrush. He turned the car and ran up over the bump, not at all sure he could squeeze his way through. He did, barely, but it was a tight fit. Once away from the highway, he was in a gloomy, green tunnel, bouncing along between rows of knobby oaks and pine stands, the drive train of his car periodically scraping against roots poking through the dirt. He drove for about five minutes, until the lane pinched in so narrow, he could go no further.

Guess this is where I walk.

He looked the doors, remembering to stuff the amulet in his pocket and set off. The road had constricted down to little more than footpath and he soon found himself out of breath and soaked with sweat trying to beat his way through. It wasn't long before he smelled an acrid charcoal odor. He let his nose lead him to it.

It was more the smell of burning pitch now. From smudge pots, he realized. He found the cottage without too much difficulty and stood on the edge of the clearing to take the scene in.

There was a towering bald man out front, sawing away at a thick board mounted on two wobbly sawhorses. He was naked to the waist and well-muscled in his neck and chest.

The cottage itself sat precariously on cement blocks, bleached white and colorfully painted with blue and red and yellow designs on and around the windows. There was a lady on the front porch, tending several hanging jars of baskets suspended with twine from the eaves. She was a dumpy, nearly hairless old woman, with a pronounced limp. She shuffled from one basket to another, the porch floorboard creaking as she moved, crooning out a low, lilting melody the words to which Bart could not quite catch.

She had to be Lettie Hatch.

Bart straightened his Tulsa bill cap and walked right into the clearing.

The bald man stood up abruptly, startled. Bart saw he was clearly a foot taller, approaching seven feet. He rocked back on his heels and glared down as Bart strolled up.

"I'm looking for Lettie Hatch," he announced, loudly enough for the lady on the porch to hear. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, that she had already come down the steps and was shuffling toward him.

The bald man raised his saw a little. Bart was surprised to find him backing off even as he approached. He could make matchsticks out of me. But he kept on backing up until he was ten or fifteen away, saw resting on his shoulders. He said nothing, but kept swatting at mosquitos from time to time, and finally leaned against an old stooped chinaberry tree to watch. Bart didn't realize that part of the amulet had been sticking out of his pocket.

The old woman shambled up beside him and squinted at Bart with narrow, calculating eyes.

"I be Lettie Hatch. What you want?"

Bart stepped back a bit to look the old woman over. She was sturdy and solid and she stood there with her hands on her wide hips.

"I was told you could help me get in touch with Dr. Spider."

Lettie chewed on her lips for a few seconds. She glared fiercely at Bart, until at last he blinked and looked down for a second. "Who told you that?"

"A young boy. Lucius Wright. You know him?"

Lettie thought for a moment. Her hands trembled as she fingered a necklace of shells and colored stones. "I knows him. Why you wantin' to see Dr. Spider?"

Bart shifted uneasily, still keeping a wary eye on the tall man. "I think my daughter may be hexed."

Lettie scanned him from head to foot, through one eye, as she chewed on the end of a piece of weed she had plucked from around the front steps. The tone of the man's voice had told her a lot.

"Buckra don' believe in such things."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said I didn't know the white folks believed in the root."

Bart wet his lips. The old woman's stare made him uneasy; he wasn't sure why. She stood in front of him planted like a squat tree, like a thing growing out of the earth, stooped and bent but unshakeable and able to weather any force, natural or otherwise. It was that sense of timeless power that unnerved him. He thought at once of the many hours he had spent atop the Tulsa's sail, when they were running on the surface, hours spent staring out at the moods and the rhythms of the sea. It always made him melancholy and he felt the same measure of vulnerability now, peering into the wrinkles of her face. He felt naked in front of this woman.

"I don't believe in root," he finally said. "My wife does. I'm here because of her. And—"

Lettie narrowed her eyes to slits at the pause.

"—and because...I guess I'm just not sure what to do anymore."

Lettie's face softened at the admission. She knew you couldn't cross the creek without getting wet. "Why don' you come in and have some tea? I got me some bread and blackberry jam too."

Bart nodded and Lettie waved at Riley. He sauntered over, chewing on the end of a stick. She took his face in her old hands when he bent down.

"Get some more wood for the fire. I feel Earl comin' on tonight. We want the house nice and cozy for when he gets here."

Riley said nothing and loped off toward the woods, stealing a backward glance at the two of them."

"Earl? Is that your husband?"

Lettie ambled back toward the front porch, Bart beside her. "That he be."

"Off to work, I suppose."

"In a manner of speaking."

"What does he do for a living?"

"Oh, he be dead now for twenty years or more." She mounted the steps and disappeared into the dark of the cabin. Bart stood there for a minute, then followed.

She bade him sit on a low wicker stool by the fireplace. It was sweltering hot outside and hotter still inside. He wondered how she could stand the heat.

She fetched a kettle from in front of the fire and poured a generous portion of tea into a chipped white cup. It was strongly scented with herbs—he could smell the cinnamon—and piping hot. He took a sip.

Lettie poured herself some tea and lay out some pieces of dark homemade bread and thick jam on a low wobbly table between them. She took her place in a straight back chair that sagged under her weight.

At her insistence, Bart related the story of what had happened to Kim the last few weeks.

Riley came in while he was talking and unloaded an armful of freshly chopped kindling onto the floor. He snatched up the rest of the bread and retired to the far corner of the room to eat. He sat hunched over with his legs crossed Indian-style stuffing his mouth hungrily, his moustache and goatee soon coated with jam. He never took his eyes off Lettie.

When he was through, Bart moistened his throat with another sip of the tea. It was so hot that it made hi sweat heavily and he soon felt much cooler and refreshed for having had the tea. He scanned the room—it was the only room in the shack—and noticed the dresses and ornaments pegged to the wall over her bed, wooden and bone things carved in the image of animals and leering faces. His eyes came back around to Lettie Hatch, who had been watching him carefully.

"I kin tell you still don' believe in the root. What good will Dr. Spider do if you don' believe?"

Bart shrugged. "I'm not comfortable with all this superstitious...stuff."

"Dr. Spider done me much good in my life." She sucked noisily at the rim of her tea cup. "Riley too." He can take away a hurt quicker than the wind blow over my flower pots. Any kind of hurt."

"Do you think he can help me? My daughter, I mean?"

"I knows he can. But he won't less'n you give him the chance. He knows what you thinkin', even now."

"I don't believe that."

Lettie regarded him thoughtfully. "Dr. Spider be like the air. He's everywhere at once. In the trees, in the dirt, in the water and the skeeters. You don' know what form he might take—whatever suits his fancy to be, that he be. You step out that door and he might be the next skeeter you swat. You jus' don' ever know. You got to be careful and watch things. You be awful sorry if you don't."

Bart mulled that over for a moment. He took a piece of dull green root that Lettie handed to him.

"Ginseng," she told him. "You suck on that for a spell. It make you see things differently."

Bart tasted the root. It was bitter and shaped in a roughly human form, with a knob at one end for a head, a thickening in the center for a body, then two thinner projections for legs. He tasted it again.

"It's awful."

"Dr. Spider give me this years ago, when I was pining so for Earl. He said it would keep me from grievin' myself right into the grave with him. I wouldn't be here without it."

Bart licked the end bud of the root one more time. It had a dusty, faintly clove-like taste. Finally, he put it down.

"Will you tell me how to reach Dr. Spider?"

Lettie leaned out of her chair and retrieved the root, cradling it gingerly in her hands. She grunted getting up and went over to the oaken chest beside her bed. She wrapped the root carefully in a white cloth and laid it to rest inside the chest. Then, she went to the fireplace and tended to the kettle, swishing the tea around, poking at the fire with a bent metal poker, sprinkling in some powders from a small pouch hung on a nail in the wall.

"You don' need no Dr. Spider. He cain't do you no good."

Bart couldn't face the prospect of returning to Sarah with no hope of seeing the root doctor. It was important to her, at least. Her spirits were low enough as it was. He remembered something.

"Maybe I can change your mind." He fished in his pocket for the amulet. Lettie's eyes widened when he drew it out and lay it on the floor.

"Who give you that?"

Bart watched her reaction closely. She was visibly disturbed, the same as Riley. "Daddy X deposited this in my basement a month ago. It was meant for my family."

Lettie shrank back in her chair and started rubbing the shells on her necklace furiously. "You know what that is?"

Bart nodded. He nudged the amulet over toward the woman's feet, leaving a tiny trail of colored powders on the floor. Lettie lifted her feet in horror. "I'm told it's a death hex. Of course, I don't believe in such things, do I?"

Lettie Hatch blinked and licked her lips nervously. She glanced over at Riley but he too was paralyzed by the sight of it. He trembled in the corner, fists clutching a tattered old rug. Neither of them took their eyes off the amulet. Powder continued to spill out along a torn stitch.

"I don' have nothing to fight that with," she murmured. "You done broke the good spell on this house. Now I got to go get me some more jinx removing powder. I got to see Dr. Spider 'cause of what you done."

"Then you'll take me to see him?"

She shook her head. "It ain't as simple as that. I'll tell you this: you go see a man named Little Spider. He's in the town."

"Where do I find this Little Spider?"

"He works at Gable's Cafeteria. Couple of nights a week. He may help you. He may not."

"I think I can persuade him."

Lettie snorted. "It ain't as easy as all that. Dr. Spider don' take clients except when he wants to. You visit him at night, on certain days of the month. He disappears for weeks sometimes—even Little Spider caint' find him."

Bart got to his feet and scooped up the amulet. "I appreciate your helping me. I'm going to find this Little Spider right away and set up an appointment." He ran his hand through his hair warily. "It's the only way I can calm Sarah down and convince her there's nothing to this. The sooner I get this over with, the sooner she'll get a hold of herself and let the doctors do their job." He went over to the door.

Lettie Hatch didn't get up. She spoke in a low, haunted voice.

"You walkin' out into the ocean, Bart Millen. Listen to me good. You walkin' out into the ocean and you ain't got no idea what creatures is stalking you. They's currents and tides you cain't know out there. They'll tear you apart."

Bart stood there in the doorway, aware only of a slight crackle of the fire and the distant drone of mosquitos. He studied the face that studied him. Her wrinkles were hard edges in the dim light, the room was smoky and the sound of metal being crushed by an ocean echoed in his memory, the sound of gunfire, bulkheads collapsing. He started and shook himself out of the daydream.

"I've faced worse, old woman. A lot worse. Whatever or whoever is stalking my family will have to deal with me first. And I'll be ready when it comes, you can count on that. You tell that to your goddamn root doctors." He waited a moment, but she said nothing more, only glared back at him with a face that looked like tree bark. He stormed out of the shack after that and went hunting in the woods for his car.

Lettie Hatch shuddered when he had left. She reflected on the fate of all those who had failed to believe.

You be crushed like a worm, Mr. White Buckra Man. 'For the next moon, you be crushed jus' like a worm.
Chapter 19

1.

The Combahee River was briny black and sluggish when Bart Millen steered The Simple Sturgeon into her mouth and went puttering slowly upstream. Sarah sat next to him in the stern, while he swung the outboard he had rented from Hedrick's Marine to avoid a dense clump of weeds and rotten logs. It was night and they had an appointment. Little Spider had told Bart during the week that he would be in touch when he was sure Dr. Spider would receive them. They had waited anxiously for four days and now it was Thursday. Word had come that afternoon.

"Take your boat," Little Spider had said on the phone, "and go up the Combahee River until you come to the old Casey bridge. There'll be an abandoned shack there. I'll be at the landing. Be there by no later than ten o'clock. And don't bring any lanterns."

It was an eerie ride and Bart felt his wife snuggling closer every minute. He wondered if they were doing the right thing after all. Several times, he threw questioning glances in her direction. She avoided them altogether, determined to see the night through. He concentrated on keeping the Sturgeon from running aground.

They motored on, vaguely aware of silent movements in the tangled growth that obscured the river banks. Wings fluttered in the high branches of the pines overhead and a screech owl shrieked in the distance. Sarah waved her hand at a persistent cloud of gnats and water flies buzzing around her face.

The river made a wide, leftward bend, nearly doubling back, and narrowed quickly enough so that Bart was momentarily concerned that he wouldn't have enough draft to clear the bottom. He throttled down to low power and stood up in a crouch, his hand still on the engine tiller, to see where they were going. Oak limbs hung low over the water, trailing their sheets of moss like vast cobwebs. The Sturgeon scraped against logs and cypress "knees" hunting for a clear path.

"I'm not sure we can go much further," he muttered. He swung them in toward the bank and the boat rode up and over a sandbar, the outboard prop thrashing in the air until their momentum carried them over and back into the water. Sarah clutched at her throat and looked over at her husband. He was grimly studying the way ahead.

Bart maneuvered the Sturgeon carefully around jagged tree limbs and clumps of grass and leaves matted together. Several times, he was afraid the mats would clog the prop and stall the engine but they passed through without difficulty and were soon in deeper, swifter flowing water. Sarah breathed a sigh of relief.

If anything, the foliage alongside the banks was growing wilder. It's like a jungle in here, Bart thought. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, Sarah hypnotized by a curtain of vines dangling in the water a few yards to starboard. She started with a little scream when one of the vines hissed and slid off into the river.

It's a botanist's dream, he told himself. Nothing was constant, not even the shadows. There was no breeze to speak of but the ripple of the water fractured what light penetrated from the stars and only magnified the looming bulk of the cypress trees. In the gray veil of the river mist, the roots of the cypress might well have been broken arms and legs, heaped like a stack of corpses in the shallows. He shuddered and concentrated on keeping the Sturgeon afloat.

The river made another bend, this one not so severe, around to their right, and it was then that Bart and Sarah had their first glimpse of the old Casey bridge up ahead. A few hundred feet closer, crouching on the left hand bank as though it might crumble into the river at any minute was Ota Camp's shack, exactly as Little Spider had described it.

Bart steered them carefully toward the dilapidated landing.

The trusswork outline of the bridge was barely visible in the mist and Sarah pointed out how far the abutments leaned over, shifting precariously over the years on the river bottom. The wooden pilings of both the bridge and the shack landing were black and slick with moss. Bart let the Sturgeon's bow scrap against one of the pilings before throwing a cable over a stout mooring cleat on top. He cut the engine and drew them against the piling as securely as he could.

"Look!" Sarah said. Bart followed her hand, pointing up to the landing.

A man stood there, just inside the doorway, staring at them. A stocky, big-bellied man with a bushy Afro. He made no effort to help them up the ladder.

It was Little Spider.

Bart made his way up to the landing, then held out his hand for Sarah to hold on to. When she had scrambled up alongside him, they stood together and watched as Little Spider stepped out of the shack.

He was dressed differently tonight, much differently from the way they had seen him in the dusty supply rom back of Gable's Cafeteria the other night. He was naked to the waist, and barefoot, wearing only faded old dungarees and a cord belt. His face and chest were decorated with animal emblems, mostly snakes and spiders in varying positions of menace, teased out in bright shades of ocher and blue and yellow. They seemed to shift and tremble when he moved; with each breath he took, the snake's head on his chest weaved and bobbed as thought ready to strike out. Sarah could not take her eyes off the emblem.

His forearms had been done up so that the veins and bones inside stood out in stark contrast to the rest of his skin. From a distance, he might have appeared a skeleton enveloped in snakes. On his forehead, a fat black spider throbbed like a thing alive.

Bart broke the silence. "It took us longer than we thought. The channel's too narrow for my boat in places."

Little Spider put his hands on his hips. His stomach spilled out over the cord belt, the snakes' heads drooping down to his legs.

"You're here. That's all that matters."

"Is he here?" Sarah asked. "Will he see us?"

Little Spider shook his head. "Not here. Dr. Spider's place is an hour's hike from here, through the woods. We have to be there by eleven. Not before. Not later."

Sarah looked down at her sandals. "I didn't really dress for a long hike."

Little Spider shrugged. "There is no other way."

"Let's go," said Bart. "I want to get this over with."

Little Spider regarded him coldly. "You cain't rush the spirits, Mr. Millen. I tol' you that before. They bide their own time and work in their own way. All you can do is go along."

Bart snorted but gave in when Sarah took his hand. "Lead the way."

Little Spider led them away from the shack and onto a narrow footpath. It was tough going through heavy brambles and soggy bottomland, skirting the boundaries of a muddy bog, and fighting through marsh muckle and crawler vine, until they were out of breathy and their faces cut and bleeding. Sarah turned her ankle when she stumbled into a shallow sinkhole and thereafter, she had to cling to Bart's shoulder and limp the rest of the way.

It was a long, wearying hour, made longer by Little Spider's insistence that they had no time to stop and rest.

"There's hags and plat-eyes in these woods," he told them. "If you stop, you die. We got to get into Dr. Spider's magic circle before we be safe." He crashed on ahead through the bush and Bart and Sarah had little choice but to follow.

Sarah jumped a foot when she ran headlong into a branch with mummified squirrel and possum carcasses hanging down. She caught her breath and slipped around the grisly tokens carefully, never taking her eyes off them. Each animal had been carefully gutted and disemboweled and its rib cage and vertebrae removed to be hung on another branch nearby. The bones clicked and rattled when Sarah had run into the branch.

She had no time to think about it though for Little Spider plunged on ahead. She stumbled after him.

She was dragging, falling further behind and near to dropping flat onto the ground when at last, they burst out of the woods and into a small clearing. She ran into her husband and nearly collapsed before realizing that he and Little Spider had stopped on the edge.

"There it is," Little Spider said. He pointed to the faint outlines of a path lined with creek stones. "Stay on the path. Don't go outside of the circle."

Bart was skeptical. "Why not?"

Little Spider was fed up with explanations. "Just do what I tell you, man. I don' tell you about your business, you don' tell me about mine." He glared angrily at Bart, who shrugged his reply.

"Just curious. Sarah, take my hand."

Together, the three of them made their way along the twisting course outlined by the stones.

Dr. Spider's cabin wasn't much bigger than the tool shed in back of Guy Dunn's house. Pine board and tin roof, sitting on bricks under a canopy of pine and oak limbs. There were tokens and charms and emblems of root power everywhere. Each tree trunk was carved with faces. They passed by a bare scraggly sweet gum tree and Sarah stopped to stare in fascination at the way the corky end buds of each branch had been shaped and pruned and whittled back to resemble faces. She caught her breath at the sight of one.

"Bart! Bart, look!"

He bent down to examine what she was pointing at. His blood ran cold when he realized who it was.

"My God—"

"It's Kris Voss."

"Come on," hissed Little Spider. "Don't touch anything outside the path." He waved at them to keep up. Bart turned her away from the carving and steered her up the sagging steps to the shed. He made sure she didn't see the snakes' head masks mounted on either side of the door.

There was a dim red light inside.

Little Spider stepped inside and motioned for the Millens to follow. They entered the smoky room cautiously and coughed at the thick pungency of incense. The smoke burned their eyes and made them water.

There on the floor by a slatted screen, his bony legs stuck under a low table, sat Dr. Spider himself. He was old, far older than Bart thought possible, a mass of wrinkles and faded tattoos and spider markings held together more by willpower than skin it seemed like. There were two candles on the table and one hung in a brass holder on the wall by the door. They crackled and hissed in the fetid night air, giving off more smoke than light. Their trembling glow made the black root doctor seem the only center of stability in the room, a solid rock in the ever-shifting shadow that threatened to engulf everything.

"Papa," said Little Spider, coming forward now, bending down to his knees so that the old man could hear him, "Papa, these are the buckra I tol' you about. They come here for your help."

For many minutes, Dr. Spider said nothing. He sat like a marbled monument behind his table, flicking at flies that occasionally lighted on his fingertips. Presently, his head turned slightly and he lifted his eyes in an appraising squint to take in the newest visitors. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and commanding.

"The King of the Snakes is about tonight." He bore into Bart Millen with black, fathomless eyes, judging the man, reading each quiver and breath like it was an open book. Bart grew deeply uncomfortable under his gaze and shifted his feet to stir the air a bit. He was drawn to this old man, somehow, there was an indefinable sense of enormous strength and wisdom about him, as if he were planted like a tree to this very spot with roots reaching into the very bowels of the earth, tapping what limitless energies lay gathering there. "You has come to be cured of an ancient worry."

Bart was aware of how hard Sarah was squeezing his hand. He realized he had not been breathing for the past few minutes.

"Dr. Spider, my wife and I are here out of desperation. My child—we have a daughter—her name is Kim and my wife here thinks that she could perhaps be helped. By you. We're not giving up on the doctors at the hospital, you understand, it's just that—we have to be sure. There are things—"

Dr. Spider held out an emaciated hand. Bart stared down at the jewelry and rings that adorned it.

"Let me see what you have in your pocket."

Bart swallowed hard. How had he known? He licked his lips and withdrew the amulet he had shown to Lettie Hatch. He placed it carefully in the old doctor's hand. Unlike Lettie Hatch, Dr. Spider did not flinch or blink. He examined the packet closely.

"How long?" he asked.

"I beg your pardon?"

Dr. Spider deftly slit the amulet open and spilled its contents on the table. He stirred them around with his thumb and forefinger, pausing to study the Little Captain statuette more carefully.

"How long have you had this?"

Bart thought. "A few weeks. The white witch doctor, Daddy X, left it in my basement one night. By accident."

Dr. Spider tasted the head of the statuette with the tip of his tongue. He spat saliva out and put it down again. "It was not an accident. This was meant for you."

"How do you know?"

Dr. Spider extracted a brilliantly jeweled mandrake root from a peg on the slatted screen. He touched the statuette, then used the narrow end of the root to stir the powders that had been inside the amulet into a crude outline of a snake. The snake had a human head, a stick figure resemblance to Bart Millen.

"I know. You see the pattern? This is not gris-gris. Daddy X don' make that kind of mistake."

"What is that stuff inside then? What is it supposed to mean?"

Dr. Spider sighed, the teacher to the child. "Each grain of the powder is like the ocean. That powerful, that mysterious. The bones are death. The statue is the life force. The tree bark is time, age, wisdom. There are many powers in this amulet, rare powers, drawn from far away. Powers concentrated. Powers assembled for a purpose."

"Which is?"

Dr. Spider took a moment to wash his hands of the powders with some oil he kept in a vial on the table. He scrubbed his fingers thoroughly before answering. His voice was cool and detached.

"You have a death hex put on you."

Sarah shivered. "Oh, Bart—"

"Now, honey, don't go to pieces. It doesn't mean anything." He stooped down next to the table, invading the doctor's space, much to the displeasure of Little Spider. Dr. Spider watched him grimly. "Suppose you tell me where all these things come from. What do you mean: drawn from far away?"

"I know what you think," Dr. Spider told him. "These substances are rare. They come from the tropics. I have not seen them often."

"Can you help us?" Sarah pleaded.

"Africa, maybe?" Bart wanted to grab the old man and shake a straight answer out of him.

"That is possible."

Or Brazil, Bart thought. "I don't believe you. I think Verne Tatum was right: it's all a racket. You're in this with Daddy X and it's all a plan to blackmail me and my family."

"Bart!" Sarah hit him on the shoulder. "Bart, how could you—"

"I'm not buying this," he said. "Who are you working for? Who paid you to do this?"

Little Spider stepped forward and laid a firm hand on his arm. Bart stood up abruptly and tried to twist out of his grasp. Little Spider implored him with his eyes.

"Please—"

He let Bart's arm go and stood there between them until Bart calmed down and apologized.

"I'm sorry. It's all so hard to swallow. Damn hard. I just don't—I don't know anymore."

Dr. Spider had been watching the outburst gravely. He clutched the mandrake rot tightly in one hand and waved it slowly over the table, cleansing it of evil influence.

"Ndebele," he muttered, under his breath. "Guede Nimbo, Daddy Exu. This house is sacred. This room is protected."

Bart sat down on the floor beside the table. Sarah sat down with him. He ran his hands through his hair. He didn't dare look at his wife.

"What happens if we just ignore this...death hex thing?"

Dr. Spider ceased crooning. He lay the mandrake root down precisely. It seemed to jump when his fingers backed off, but then lay still. Sarah watched it for a moment, half expecting it to move again.

"You will die. One of you. Both of you. I cannot say how or when. But it will happen."

"You know that I don't believe you. I don't want to believe you. Lettie Hatch said root doesn't work if you don't believe. I choose to believe that little amulet can't hurt me."

Dr. Spider understood this. "Many centuries ago, people chose to believe that a drop of water could not hurt them. Yet they still died sometimes. Why? Your doctors say it was germs. Perhaps that is so. Does it matter if you believe what they say?"

"It's not the same. Germs exist. People were just unaware of them."

Dr. Spider nodded to himself. "It is the same." He picked up the root again, turning it over, pressing its studded bark to his old face. He seemed to draw strength from the gesture. "I cain't help you if you don' want to be helped."

"But we do!" Sarah cried. "What about Kim?" She looked at her husband with an incredulous stare. "What about Angie Voss and Clarinne Bevins and all the children? I believe in root. I believe you have the power. Isn't that enough? We have nowhere else to turn."

Dr. Spider kissed the mandrake. Bart struggled with the decision. Damn it, she's right. I know that. But it's a racket. I know that too. He held up his hands. "I'm tired of fighting. I'm sick to death of having to explain why I'm alive and a hundred men aren't. There aren't any more excuses. Why can't people just accept what they can't change?" He begged Dr. Spider with his eyes. "I don't know what to think anymore."

Dr. Spider reached out and placed two fingers gently on Bart's wrist. At first, he snatched his hand away. Then, under Sarah's pleasing eyes, he put it back. Dr. Spider tapped Bart's hand three times with the mandrake. "There is a thing in you that causes pain. I can help. I want you to relax."

Bart fought at first but Dr. Spider's words were insistent, his manner soothing. Sarah locked her arms in his and moved closer, squeezing up next to him. He glanced over; her face said give it a chance. Slowly, his defenses crumbled and he gave in.

"Mboro Gimbele," Dr. Spider said. "Mboro Gimbele Daddy Exu. I feel the pain. I feel the knot that hurts in you." He traced the tip of the mandrake root up and down the length of Bart's arm. "We can fight this. Together, we can send this thing to its rightful place deep in the bosom of the earth. You know I can do this."

A candle popped, its flame guttering in the light breeze. Little Spider moved to cover the flame, then douse it. He squatted down in the corner. Now, only the candles on the table provided illumination, a hellish red flickering glow in the heart of a stifling darkness. Beads of sweat had broken out on Bart's forehead, now running down his cheeks. Sarah too was bathed in perspiration. She unbuttoned a few buttons on her blouse.

"Listen to me, Bart Millen. Listen to me, Sarah. I am the center of all things. In this place, I'm the sun and the wind, the moon and the stars. I'm the earth under your feet and the air you breathe. I'm the water you bathe in and the food you eat. I am in you. You know this is true. I am there. With you. I will help you fight this pain." He produced a silver chalice and poured into it a cloudy liquid from a dusty vial. "This is King Solomon's oil. It gives strength and wisdom, the power of the ages." He stirred the oil into the water with his index finger, then dabbed the end of the root into the mixture and anointed first Sarah, then Bart, once each on the shoulder and forehead. "With this, you can fight the evil inside. You can feel the evil getting smaller, dissolvin' away. It's loosenin' up, flowing out of you with each drop of sweat."

"Ohhhh," Sarah moaned. She swayed, feeling faint in the heat, but stayed upright. Little Spider watched her carefully, ready to catch her if she fell. Beside her, Bart leaned forward against the table, his back rigid.

Dr. Spider opened a tiny wooden box that lay next to him on the floor.

"I'm gon' draw this thing out of you now. I'm gon' pull it out and it may hurt but when it's done, you be feeling better. You know I can do this."

He opened the box and took out a glass jug, stoppered tightly at the top. The jug was filled with water, dirty, scummy creek water with bits of dirt and cypress bark floating inside. There was something else inside as well.

It was a tiny man. A homunculus, drifting lazily among the bark bits, treading water in order to stay upright as Dr. Spider turned the jug up and set it on the table. A thin, gaunt, naked black-haired man with smooth pink skin and long delicate arms. His eyes were closed and he settled back down to the base of the jar as Dr. Spider let it go. There he rested, hovering slightly in a dead man's float.

"I want you both to touch this jar." He guided their fingers to the glass surface and Sarah momentarily opened her eyes, in time to see the tiny man jerk, as if stung. She gasped and pulled her hand back.

"My God—"

"Keep your hands on the glass." He guided her fingers more firmly until they rested lightly against the jar. Sarah trembled, staring in horror at the convulsions her touch created.

Each time they touched the jar, the tiny man twitched violently. As Dr. Spider pressed their fingers more tightly against the glass, the twitches became spasms, then convulsions. Through the slits of her eyes, Sarah saw him writhe in pain, his mouth a soundless scream, clawing at the water, enveloped in swirling dirt and bark, spinning and spinning and turning in agony until she was sure he would burst and she cried out.

"Stop it! Stop it you're hurting him—"

But Dr. Spider's voice overrode hers and she found she could not take her fingers off the jar—they were stuck there, held fast by some force she couldn't explain.

"It's goin' now, you can feel it, cain't you? I feel it. The thing that burns is pulling out, moving on. It's leaving your body and taking up in a new home."

\--he was blue with terror, she could see the veins on his neck standing out, he was strangling, gasping, silent screaming torture written all over that face—

"You are feelin' better already. You are coming back without the burden that has plagued you. It was onerous, sure, it was a hideous thing that was eatin' at you but it's gone now. You know it is—"

\--the death throes, the death lurch, the jar was getting cloudy, almost milky, great gouts of crimson red and blue and white smoke billowing against the glass, obscuring the final excruciating paroxysm—

"You are back with me now. Back with Dr. Spider. Your pain is cut out and boiled off." He removed the jar, now a seamless opaque white coating the glass and smoothly lay it down on its bed inside the wooden box. He shut the box and latched it and slid it out of view underneath the table. "Put your fingers in the palm of my hand, Bart and Sarah Millen. I give you the strength to keep this thing at bay."

They complied and Dr. Spider lay back his head, beseeching to the ceiling.

"Guede Nimbo, I have invoked the power you give me. I have driven the beast out of their bodies and into the flames of the pit. These are good people, seeking peace and rest. By the power of the seal of the serpent, I touch them now with my sacred root and they be forever protected from the claws of their enemies. Ayida-wedo, hear this and obey."

And he touched them once more, on the left shoulder, then the right, and once upon their forehead, with the end of the jeweled mandrake root.

All was silent, save for the faint scratching of the pine branches on the roof.

Moments later, Bart's eyes fluttered open. He swayed back, then caught himself with his hands and sat upright again. He glanced over at Sarah—she was coming out of it too—then leveled an accusing glare at the old root doctor.

"What happened? What did you do?"

Dr. Spider studied the fine grain of the table with an impassive face.

"Sarah, Sarah, are you okay?" He put an arm around her shoulder, never taking his eyes off the old an. "You gonna be all right?"

She nodded, groggily. "Mm-hmm. I think...so." She wiped the sweat from her lips and eyebrows. "I'm so hot."

"You drugged us somehow, didn't you?"

Dr. Spider said nothing.

"Answer me, for Chrissakes!"

Dr. Spider folded his arms across his wrinkled belly—the spider on his chest devoured the head of a snake. "You are feelin' better."

"Yeah, some, but you didn't answer my question."

"Bart," Sarah closed her left hand over his right. "That is the answer. We feel better. It works. You didn't believe but it worked for you. Admit it."

Bart shook his head. "It's not that simple. It's a trick, Sarah, don't you see that?"

"What about that little man?"

"It was a doll. It was a statue, just like we've been getting in the mail. What do you say to that, Dr. Spider?"

The root doctor's eyebrows lifted slightly. "I say that Daddy X has his hooks into you good, Bart Millen. He's gaining steadily in influence and power and the final battle is near."

"Bullshit. There's no Daddy X."

Little Spider spoke up for the first time in an hour. "That ain't what I hear, man."

Bart swung around. "What do you mean?"

Little Spider shifted his weight and kicked uneasily at some dirt on the floor. "Folks say you and your family are the targets. The only targets. You be the one that stirred Daddy X back to life. Folks're getting annoyed about that."

"Why?" Sarah asked. "Why us?"

"Because," Bart stabbed the air with his finger, "one of the men who survived the Tulsa is jealous. That has to be it. One of them is jealous of all the publicity and hero-worship that's gone down these last fifteen years. This book thing with Hamilton Dodd is the last straw. That's who Daddy X really is—a Tulsa survivor out for revenge."

"That may be so," said Dr. Spider, "but how you going to find him? How you going to stop him? He believes in the root. You can only fight him in this way."

"Exactly," said Little Spider. "Flush him out by playing it his way."

"Bart, they're right. You know they are. We need Dr. Spider's services to fight this man. Can't you see that?"

Bart took a deep breath. He mulled it over for a minute, knowing full well that what they were saying was true. It was uncomfortable, even frightening, to think that Dr. Spider had so easily conned them. Tatum was right—he was smooth. Maybe he could con their enemy as well.

"Is there a contract I have to sign or something?" he said at last.

"I help my people when they need help," Dr. Spider said. He looked to Little Spider, who understood the message and helped Sarah to her feet. Bart stood up also.

"Let's get you back to your boat," he said. "Papa's got business at the thinkin' hole tonight. Come on."

"What do we have to do to hire you?" Bart asked.

Little Spider hustled them both outside. "I'll see to that. We have to leave now."

Sarah lingered for a moment in the doorway. She couldn't shake the image of the little man in her mind, the little man who had absorbed all their pain. Where was he? What was he? Was he dead? She started to speak but Dr. Spider anticipated her question.

"You cain't see germs, Sarah Millen, just like you cain't see evil. But they both be dangerous all the same. Trust in the power of the root. The earth abides and heals everything. Remember that."

Little Spider came back to the door and took her by the shoulder. "Come on, Miz Millen. I get you back to your boat okay." He led her down the steps and off into the woods."

They made the trek back to the landing by the abandoned shack in silence. After Sarah had scrambled down the ladder and seated herself in the Sturgeon's now, Bart helped Little Spider unwind the cable from the mooring cleats. He dropped it onto the deck, then stuck out his hand.

"Thanks." They shook for a long minute. "I'm afraid I'm probably not the best customer Dr. Spider ever had. He'll help us, won't he?"

Little Spider nodded. "He already is."

"What should we do?"

"Well," Little Spider rubbed his moustache thoughtfully. His eyes drooped with fatigue. "You fight a hex with a counterhex. That's what Papa'll want to do." He was mighty proud of Papa tonight. "A counterhex works best if something in Daddy X's personal possession could be obtained."

"Like what? We don't even know where to find him. Or where to begin looking."

"I know. But I have an idea. Do this: it looks like your girl Kim is somehow under this man's influence. You said she was in the hospital?"

"Bay County Clinic. For tests. And observation."

"Take her out. Bring her to my place—I live in Presser Homes, Building D-4. Maybe I can trance her so she'll bring back a personal possession next time she gets his call."

"Maybe I should follow her instead and have it out with this scumbag face to face."

"I wouldn't advise it. Be too dangerous right now. Let the root work on it."

Bart shrugged. "All right. We've gone this far, we may as well go all the way. But I don't like it."

"None of us do. But until we put the good Daddy back where he came from, you and your family ain't gonna be too safe and the white witch doctor won't be all your worries. There's talk in the town now that you woke the Alligator Man from his slumber when you moved here last year. Things get much worse and there's no telling what folks might do."

Bart swallowed hard. "I see. Then, I guess we don't have a choice, do we?"

"Doesn't see like it."

"I'll get Kim to your place tomorrow." He climbed down the ladder and jumped onto the deck. Sturgeon rocked under his weight. "Bayville's our home too, damn it. We're not going to run anymore."

He cranked the engine and shoved the boat away from the wharf with an angry kick.
Chapter 20

1.

Bart fidgeted at the breakfast table while Sarah finished dressing for the ride out to the Clinic. It had been a sleepless night for both of them and while his wife had retired to the bathroom to get ready, Bart had pulled out the folder full of notes and anecdotes he had been compiling for Ham Dodd and thumbed through them. He was looking, looking and thinking, but for what he wasn't entirely sure. He scanned what he had already scribbled about the six other survivors of the Tulsa.

First off, there was Harry Buchholz, Lieutenant, Engineering Officer, career Navy man and champion pinochle player in the officers' mess. What the hell did he know about Buchholz? He jotted down a few impressions, knowing that everything he remembered would be nearly fifteen years old. Sour face. Humorless. A razor tongue for chewing out jack-offs in the engine room. But he was hardly the type to hold a grudge for a decade and a half, let alone stalk his old commanding officer like jungle prey. Scratch Harry Buchholz.

Who else was there? Bart drummed the pencil on the table.

Nick Pike, for one. Radioman First Class. He hardly knew the boy. Even the memory was blurred; he could recall the greasy black hair and the crooked grin, but not much more. Pike was a loner, like most of the sonar and radio crewmen; he spent too much time immersed in his own world of cracks and chirps and whistles of radio static to need the company of other men. He also remembered that Pike liked to write poetry in his bunk—the men were always ribbing him about that.

There was Dennis Wilcox, Chief Petty Officer. Dennis was a likeable slob, not much of an example sartorially for the men but the kind of guy who earned respect, sometimes with his fists. Not much in the brains department—he was a lifer in the Navy—but plenty shrewd about what made a boat tick. There was no way Denny Wilcox could think up anything like the Alligator Man.

That left three others. Bart shuffled his notes and did a little scribbling. The act of writing jogged his memory a little and three faces materialized in his mind.

Wiley Farrell, helmsman. Calvin March, machinist's mate, third class. And Bernie Filipchuk, hospital corpsman, first class. Three young seamen. All bachelors. Probably out of the Navy by now. He'd hardly known March and Filipchuk. Farrell, though, was a different story.

Wiley Farrell was the man who had pushed him into the diving bell first and only just made it before they had to pull away from the doomed Tulsa. Wiley Farrell had saved the Captain.

Bart scribbled the words in capital letters on his pad, trying it out as a headline. He hadn't seen any headline like that. Was it possible Farrell resented his fame? Bart pondered the thought uneasily.

He was interrupted by Sarah, who had finished primping in the bathroom. He'd almost forgotten they had a date with Dr. Givens at the Clinic, to discuss Kim's progress,

"You look like you just saw a ghost," she told him. She poured herself half a cup of coffee and stood at the window over the sink, watching Dean in the backyard. He had his bike disassembled out on the patio landing next to the screened porch, cleaning some of the parts.

Bart tucked his notes back into the folder. "Maybe I did. You ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be."

"Let's go then."

The phone rang before they could make it to the garage.

"I'll get it," Bart said. He snatched up the receiver by the desk. "Hello?"

"Mr. Millen? Is this Mr. Millen?"

"Yes, it is. Who's calling?"

The voice seemed to pause, gather breath. "Mr. Millen, this is Ted Givens, down at the Clinic. I called just as soon as I found out—the nurse on duty didn't report it at once—she didn't know. I don't think she's been gone very long."

"What are you talking about Dr. Givens?" Bart shot his wife a concerned glance; she came over next to him.

"It's your daughter, Mr. Millen. Kim."

"What about her?"

"She's missing. Not in her room. I was wondering if she had come back home."

"Missing?" Bart cupped his hand over the receiver to speak to Sarah. "Kim's gotten out of the Clinic."

"Sarah's face went white. "Oh, no."

"When did it happen? How long ago?"

Givens cleared his throat. "Well, as I said, it couldn't have been too long ago. The duty nurse last checked in about thirty minutes ago, with nothing unusual to report. Mary said the child appeared to be resting soundly. Apparently, she had a rather restless night."

"Are you looking? Are you searching for her?"

"Of course, Mr. Millen. We have attendants combing the hospital and grounds right now. I've even taken the liberty of alerting the Sheriff's Department. Verne Tatum himself is on his way out."

He would be, Bart thought. "All right, all right." Bart sat down on the edge of the desk. "I didn't mean to snap at you, Doctor. My wife and I were just on our way over there now. It'll be about ten minutes."

"I'll be in the lobby." He hung up and Bart placed the phone back in its cradle like it was a bomb. He took a deep breath, avoiding Sarah's face. "It's him. Goddamnit, I know it's him."

Sarah's voice was small and distant. "Who?"

Bart slammed his fist on the desk in frustration, knocking a pencil holder over. "Never mind. Let's go. If we hurry, we can beat the traffic heading down to the marina. I don't feel like sitting in a damn traffic jam this morning."

He hustled Sarah out the door and into the car. They drove at top speed through the streets of Bayville, running more than one red light, Bart daring the police to stop him. Sarah clutched the armrest nervously, watching her husband out of the corner of her eye. She swore a silent oath to herself that if she ever got her family back whole and alive and sane after all this was over, she'd find God wherever He was and personally dedicate herself to singing His glory for the rest of her life.

They screeched to a stop in the Visitors' Parking Lot—Bart filling an EMERGENCY VEHICLES ONLY lane—and fairly ran into the building. As promised, Dr. Givens was pacing nervously around the alcove where the front desk was situated, followed by a tall, rugged balding man whom they later learned to be Jim Matrangos, head of Security Branch at the Clinic. Verne Tatum was there too, in civilian clothes. He looked like he had just come from the shower; his bristly nape was still soaking wet with water. He greeted the Millens grimly.

"Hey, Bart. Sarah. I came as soon as Givens called. I wish we could meet under better circumstances."

Dr. Givens took off his glasses and began cleaning them with the sleeve of his white lab coat. "We'd made a lot of progress too, in understanding what has happened to Kim."

Tatum sat himself wearily down in a vinyl chair by the water fountain. "Why don't you tell them what you told me?"

"All right." Givens licked his lips, holding up his glasses to the light. "A little after eight thirty this morning, I came in. I don't usually come in this early on Saturday, but well, Kim's an unusual patient and I wanted to check up on her; as I said, I think we may have isolated the substance behind her skin exfoliation. When I got to the fourth floor, the place was in an uproar. Mary White, the duty nurse, told me they had just found that Kim was missing. She'd been seen thirty minutes before, apparently sleeping peacefully.

"I went to her room. All of her clothes were scattered around the room, including her robe and pajamas. The windows were sealed shut and there was no sign she had gotten out that way."

Jim Matrangos picked up the story. "We searched every room and closet on every floor, but she had just disappeared."

"Completely naked?" Bart asked.

Givens nodded his head. "It would seem so."

Matrangos added. "We looked everywhere on the grounds too. At this point, I have no idea how she got out. Nobody admits to having seen her."

"She may have hitchhiked to get away," Tatum volunteered.

"Or been picked up," Bart said. Their eyes met—they were thinking the same thing.

"We did everything we could—"

"I'm not blaming you," Bart said.

"What about Kim?" Sarah asked. "What did you find?"

Givens was thankful for a question he could answer. He put his glasses back on and straightened up. "We've been running blood and urine tests, as well as skin scrapes, the last few days." He pulled out a crumpled scrap of paper from his coat pocket. "I believe that your daughter has a rather rare form of skin disease called icthyosis, characterized by the rapid spread of black, horny and scaly skin. Let me explain a little: you see the skin has two main layers. There's the epidermis, the visible outer part, that consists of a thin layer of covering cells that are constantly being sloughed off as new ones are produced. Below the epidermis, is what we call the dermis, the true skin, which carries nerve endings, blood vessels, hair follicles, and so forth. The outer layer protects the inner layer and it usually regenerates itself every twelve to fourteen days. Except in Kim's case, the process has been interrupted."

"Can you do anything for it?"

Givens scratched his beard. "Well, it's not quite so simple as that. Icthyosis is caused by a kind of tropical virus. We found traces of it in her bloodstream. This particular type of dermatitis is idiopathic in origin."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning that its exact cause and nature is undetermined. Icthyosis is what we call an exfoliative irritation, albeit a rare one. There are others I'm sure you've heard of: psoriasis, for instance. We did a skin biopsy yesterday to rule out any kind of malignant growth—no results on that. We can't absolutely rule out the possibility of seborrheic dermatitis or dermatitis mendicamentosa." He shrugged. "Or something else."

"You mean cancer?"

"That is a possibility. But this virus we detected is of more immediate concern to me."

"Why?" asked Bart.

"Well, because it's known to be able to induce a state of heightened suggestibility in advanced cases. Other symptoms are extreme restlessness and periodic trance-like states. It can even be transferred through the skin by powder substances. My research tells me that this virus—which we're calling loca rubens...jungle red...is a common affliction of certain coastal tribes in the Caribbean and Latin America, peoples whose beliefs tend toward animism and spiritualism. They use certain powders and ointments in their religious rites, to bring on fits and seizures. They think people so afflicted are better able to communicate with their gods. It's really quite interesting."

"And now she's loose again." Tatum muttered. He looked up at Sarah and immediately regretted what he had said. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Bart told him. "Maybe we're dealing with...something not quite human here."

Sarah was aghast. "How can you say that about your own daughter? What's the matter with you?"

"Because it may be true. It's time we faced up to it."

Sarah folded her arms and looked away. "It's no wonder she feels unwanted."

"Folks," Tatum interrupted, getting to his feet, "I'm going to organize another manhunt. I've already called in the State Police, much as I hate to admit it. We're getting pretty good at this thing by now. Oh, and I have some more bad news, Bart. If you're up to it."

"It's all I hear lately."

"We finally located Mrs. Wally Voss. And her little daughter."

"Kris?" asked Sarah. "How is she? Is she okay?"

The look on the Sheriff's face was all the answer she needed. Bart asked the question.

"Where?"

"There's an old rundown praise house, a church for black folks, the other side of the Broad River, a couple of miles north of Highway 170, way back in the woods. Not many people know it's still there. As far as I could determine, it ain't been used in decades. There's a graveyard there too—we found some freshly turned earth." He kicked at some imaginary dirt on the floor. "Autopsy results came in last night. Confirmed."

Sarah shuddered at the grisly image. Bart put his arm around her. "You know the cause of death."

"Mm-hmmm, if you're interested. Animal bite. Both of their bodies were covered with teeth and fang marks and Mrs. Voss had several crushed ribs. There were also scale marks on her thighs."

"Snakes?"

Tatum nodded. "And other things."

Jim Matrangos spoke up. "What about those other children you were telling me about?"

"Oh, yeah. We have quite a few children reported missing now. No one you know but it's spreading around the County. Boulder Bevins—I think you do know him—told me the other day that his daughter Clarinne hadn't come home one night. He spent the whole night looking for her, thought she had gone over to visit India Haynes' son Gibby but she hadn't. She finally turned up two nights later, battered and a little bruised, kind of dazed. And with some kind of bad rash on her face." He was aware of Dr. Givens' stare.

"I no longer know what to say or think about Kim," Bart said. "I don't think I know my own daughter anymore."

"Well, the manhunt will concentrate along the banks of the Combahee River, on the other side of town. That Marine kid Lattimore seemed to think we'd have a better chance of scaring up Daddy X over there. He even claims to have been in the good Daddy's lair for a few days, held prisoner or some such."

"You believe that?"

"I believe in Santa Claus."

Bart thought for a moment. "Verne, the more I think about it, the more certain I am that this Daddy X is one of the Tulsa survivors. It just has to be. Who he is I don't know yet but I think I've got his mind figured out and if I'm right, then he's not going to be easy to catch. He's smart, if nothing else."

"So what are you thinking?"

Dr. Givens cleared his throat. "If you gentlemen will excuse me, I have some other patients to attend to."

Bart stuck out his hand. "Thanks, Doctor, for everything."

Givens pushed his glasses back up his nose. "I think I can help her, Mr. Millen. I won't tell you it will be easy but there are treatments which stand a good chance of working." He said good-bye and went off to see to other duties. Jim Matrangos lingered behind.

"Like I said," Tatum repeated, "what's on your mind? Why is this loon terrorizing all the town's children?""

"I think it's tactics," Bart said. "He's trying to instill a general climate of fear, turn the town against us, disguising what he's doing in the traditions of this root business. Whoever he is, he's paranoid about having his identity known."

"You got any clues? Any suspects I can go on?"

Bart shook his head and felt Sarah pressing closer. "Not yet, not really. Just hunches. I was reviewing what I remembered about the survivors before we came over here."

"I'd like to see a list. At least, I'd have something to go on."

"Okay, I'll draw one up but I don't really think any of these men are capable of this."

Tatum snorted. "You never know nowadays. Kid pisses in his sandbox, gets spanked by his Mom, gets really torqued by it all and sets fire to his parents' bed. Happens all the time. You give me that list and whatever you think is important to know about them. I can run a check on them through the FBI."

"Okay. I guess we may as well go back home and wait for the news."

"I'm going to see if I can't borrow a few Marines again. I'm sure she'll turn up before long—you know how kids are."

"Come on, honey," said Bart. He took Sarah's hand and led her back out to the car. Tatum followed them out. "What say we do some yard work this afternoon? I'll help you transplant those new azaleas to the side bed, if you want."

"I think I need a strong drink," she muttered. "Maybe several."

"Well, we could do that too."

Tatum opened the door for Sarah and shut it behind her. "You folks stay by the phone. I just got a feeling we'll find Kim before sundown."

Sarah closed her hand over the Sheriff's fingers, still resting on the window sill. "You don't have to say that, Verne, although I appreciate it. I guess Kim'll come back when she's ready. I'm resigned to that now. She's always done just what she wanted to anyway. But thanks, just the same."

Tatum nodded. He was never any good at this emotion business. Damn Ginny used to kick me like the dickens when I wouldn't cry at the romance movies they showed at the Misty Woods. "Just you don't fret none. We found her once, we'll find her again."

He stepped back to let them drive away. It was bad, when you thought about it, real bad. There he was, Sheriff of Bay County, with all the experience of Perry Mason and the powers of the law behind him and he sounded like a damned minister, soothing the vexations and torments of his beloved flock. He ought to be able to do better than that. He ought to be able to put a stop once and for all to the depredations of Daddy X. He ought to be able to at last protect the lives and property of his constituents.

When you got to toting up all the oughts, it was depressing enough to drive a good man to drink.

Verne Tatum wet his lips and decided to indulge an old habit before he got on the phone to that Colonel Dunn down to the Marine base.

Sarah spent most of the afternoon and early evening out on the screened porch, lying on the glider, pretending to read a paperback novel. For his own diversion, Bart had taken up helping his son Dean finish cleaning and re-assembling his bike, oiling the chain and gears real good and teaching him how to use all the tools in the junior-size tool box he had gotten for Christmas last year. Dean was well aware that his Dad was only half paying attention. He squatted down next to the handlebars with his back to the porch and spoke to his father in a low voice.

"Is Mom gonna be okay?"

Bart sat down on the grass and wiped the sweat from his eyes with an old T-shirt. " She's concerned about your sister, that's all. Kim's very sick and we're all worried about her."

"Is she gonna die?"

Bart wiped some grease off his hands. "No," he replied. "No, she's not going to die. She just needs a lot of care and loving right now. You love your sister, don't you?"

There was a painful hesitation before Dean answered. "Sure, Dad. She's my sister, isn't she? Sometimes, I don't understand her but...."

Bart squeezed his shoulder. "I know what you mean, son. But we're all gonna try real hard to make her comfortable when she comes home, aren't we?"

Dean nodded solemnly, a tight catch in his throat. "I hope she gets well soon. So Mom won't be this way." He stared down at the screwdriver in his hands. "Sometimes—"

"What?"

"—sometimes, I think there's a ghost following us everywhere we go. I don't ever see it, but I can feel it, tickling me at night sometimes. And every time we move, it comes right along. That's silly, isn't it?"

"Yeah, that's pretty silly. You've been staying up too late the last week, worrying. We've all been doing that."

"Dad?"

"Mm-hmmm?"

"Is Kim gonna come back? Doesn't she want to live here anymore?"

"Of course she does. Don't be too hard on her right now. She's not entirely in control of herself, that's all."

"Well, if she's not, then who is?"

Bart sighed and took the screwdriver from his hand. "You want to help me get this thing back together or what?"

Dean said no more after that.

They ate a light supper out on the porch, the three of them, in virtual silence. Julie was in Columbia, where she had gotten a part time job working in the campus bookstore and was already preparing to begin her first year in college. They had gotten a phone call from her the night before and Bart hadn't had the heart to tell her that Kim wasn't getting any better.

After dinner, Dean retired to his room and shut the door. They could hear the radio going inside, tuned to an FM rock station. He didn't come out the rest of the evening and Bart could well imagine him lying on the hammock he had slung underneath the window, reading one of his books on exotic animals. He didn't even come down for the plate of cold chicken that he knew was in the refrigerator, being saved for him.

Bart knew they could not take much more of this.

He and Sarah spent a quiet evening in the den, watching television. The rerun of "King Solomon's Mine" lasted until just before eleven. Sarah decided to go to bed before the news came on. She bent down for a listless kiss and wandered off down the hall to their bedroom.

Half an hour later, Bart followed.

He did not go to sleep right away but lay quietly with arms tucked behind his head, thinking and dozing lightly. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that none of the six known survivors could have cooked up a scheme like this. Who then? A disgruntled widow? Maybe a son gone berserk, grown up to hate the man who had been responsible for his father's death. Stop that. He could well hear the gruff voice of that Navy psychologist, Bledsoe, beating it into him that he wasn't responsible for the accident, that he had followed standard procedure, that he had done everything he could and that he would kill himself with guilt if he didn't straighten up. But it didn't matter---it never had. A part of him had died that hot day in the tropics, died and rotted through, and every passing year, the rot had grown swollen and more malignant until now it was a thing alive, threatening to engulf everything he cared for and everyone he loved. Stop that. Stop that stop that stop that. I'm getting as bad as Deano.

A faint scratching intruded on his thoughts and Bart listened for a moment. Probably Dean shuffling around in his room, hiding those Playboy magazines he borrowed from y Navy footlocker. He smiled in the darkness.

No, that was not quite it. The scratching wasn't coming from that side of the house. Bart propped himself up on his elbows, briefly disturbing Sarah, who moaned and shifted away. He cocked his head to hear better.

It came again, a distinct creak. What—then he knew. It was a window going up. It was the window next to Kim's bedroom.

He slipped out of bed and eased open the door. Silently, he padded down the hall in his bare feet until he stood outside the door to Kim's room. They had kept the door shut ever since they had taken her to the Clinic, just the way Kim did when she was home. It was Sarah's way of pretending that everything was fine. Bart had seen no reason to disturb this little fantasy.

He nudged the door open with his toe and looked inside.

The window was open. A shape flitted across the room, and in the dim moonlight streaming in through the window, Bart caught a glimpse of its reflection in the vanity mirror.

It was Kim. Or the thing that had once been Kim.

At that moment, she saw him. She crouched beneath the window, an unearthly groan filling the room. The light glistened off her tough, suppurating hide, black and slick as creek water. She glared out at him from the pool of darkness by the window, eyes a hard, brittle yellow, inhuman eyes swollen with hatred and loathing. He heard something snap and realized, with a start, that it was her jaw, distended like a reptile's now, gleaming with jagged incisors, drooling spit and saliva all over the floor. Her breathing was ragged, hissing and labored.

"Kim!"

He lunged into the room, but she was up on the vanity bench and nearly out the window before he could catch her. He flew forward and just managed to grab a foot, a tail, he wasn't quite sure but it didn't matter because he pulled and pulled with every ounce of strength he had and my God she's strong and pulled and lost his grip then his footing on the throw rug and clung for his life as she slowly relentlessly slid up over the window sill until his feet were planted solid against the baseboard and he pulled until his hands burned from the hide and he couldn't hold on much longer and finally, finally, she began to lose the tug of war and then her balance and with a shriek fell heavily back into the room, right on top of him, the vanity bench upending and clattering across the floor.

He scrambled away and picked up the bench and swung it down against her head as hard as he could, a dull, sickening thud that stilled the monster and then he caught himself ready to swing again and his mouth went dry and he flung the bench down, realizing what he had just done.

He stood there, standing over his daughter, heart racing, breathing hard, and he wanted to scream at the top of his lungs but the hall light coming on throttled his words and then he saw the look of horror on Sarah's face as she stood frozen in her footsteps in the doorway to Kim's room.

"Get some clothes on! Right now! We're taking her to Little Spider's."

Sarah stood there in shock, her mouth working but nothing coming out. She took a tentative step, but recoiled at the grisly sight. "Bart, is she...is she...."

"She's just unconscious, that's all. Now do as I say. I'll get her into the car. Go on."

She jerked like a puppet and disappeared back down the hall. Dean soon appeared at the doorway too but Bart shooed him off and told him to stay in his room.  
He looked around the room for a moment, before spying the drapery cord. He didn't want to do it, but she had to be secured for the ride over. He couldn't take a chance on what might happen when she finally came to.

He trussed her hands and feet, grimacing at the sight and smell of the child-beast, the thing he had once loved as a daughter. Looking down at it—her—now, he wasn't sure he could love such a creature. He half-dragged, half-carried her down the hall and out the front door to the car, heaving her up into the back seat of the Chevy. She stirred slightly when he closed the door and he prayed the cords would be strong enough to hold. Then he went back inside and got Sarah, still only partly dressed.

"Take the damn robe," he told her, tossing her favorite powder blue chiffon robe into her arms. "We've got to hurry. I'm not sure how long we can control her."

"Bart, that's not Kim," she told him as they fled out the door.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"That's not my daughter. I didn't give birth to that."

He opened the door for her. "Just get in. And don't reach back there." He ran around to his side, got in, and gunned the engine. They backed out into the street and screeched off toward town. From his bedroom window, Dean watched with grim fascination.

Bart had never been to Presser Homes before and he almost missed the turn-off, covered as the sign was with weeds and grass and kudzu. He sped down the twisting road, the asphalt broken and full of potholes, mindful of the fact that Kim had awakened and was now sitting up in the back seat, leering at him in the rear view mirror. Sarah stared straight ahead through the windshield, not daring to turn around and face was sat grunting and snorting and struggling with its bonds in the back seat. She could feel the hot, putrid breath on her neck and cringed, shutting her eyes, praying silently that they would please be there, hurry up for God's sake.

Bart spent almost ten minutes hunting along dark, deserted, rat-infested lanes before finding the building number Little Spider had given him. It sat at the end of a dreary cul-de-sac strewn with garbage and pieces of lumber and brick, a single yellow eye of light in an otherwise darkened hulk, the only sign of life in this dingy graveyard of failed dreams. He pulled up to the curb and cut the engine. The headlights went off next, but not before picking out the address plate over the front door: BLDG D-4.

"Let's go," he muttered and pushed open the door. Sarah got out too and stood on the sidewalk in front of the concrete steps, her hands to her mouth.

"Dear God...."

"You're gonna have to help me a little, Sarah. Come around here."

"I can't."

"Come here, for Chrissakes! Just hold the door open, will you?" Silently, reluctantly, she obeyed.

Kim snapped at his arm the first time he reached in to grab a hold of her. He could see that this was going to be tricky. He stood back for a minute. "Give me the belt to your robe." He waited impatiently, while Sarah pulled it loose and handed it to him. Carefully, he reached in and managed to slip the belt around her jaw, cinching it up tight and tying a knot at the end. She squirmed at the new restraint for a few seconds, then gave up and sat quietly, glaring at them.

"Do you have to do that?" Sarah asked. She backed off as Bart pulled Kim up and out of the back seat. She struggled loose from his grip and shrieked at the top of her voice, a wild animal screech barely muffled by the gag.

"I don't plan on being bitten. Here, take her other arm."

Sarah did so, reluctantly, and together, they dragged her through the front door and into a dark, dingy lobby full of broken glass and splintery walls. There was a single pale light bulb at the foot of some stairs. They paused there for a rest.

"Why would anyone want to live like this?" Sarah asked.

Kim sat on the first step, mindlessly tearing at her cords, groaning with the effort, while Bart investigated. He climbed the stairs to the top and stood there, scanning the length of the corridor. Down one end, the soft, furry shapes of rats scuttled in and out of open apartment doors, squealing, snapping at each other, staring back toward the light with savage yellow eyes. At the other end, around a corner, the faint glow of more light could be seen.

Little Spider had told them he lived on the second floor.

He went back down and helped Sarah get Kim up the stairs and down the hall toward the glow. They rounded the corner and came at last to the only door on the hall that was still intact. The murmur of voices—television voices—came from inside.

Bart knocked several times.

A minute later, the door eased open and Little Spider peered out at them. He was bare to the waist, a beer in one hand. When he saw Kim, his eyes narrowed and he quickly put the can down on the cinder block and plywood that served as a coffee table. He took a step back and motioned them inside.

They brought Kim inside and forced her to sit in a hard wooden chair next to the coffee table. Little Spider never took his eyes off of her; he felt a cold chill along the nape of his neck. This was proof, this was Daddy X's work in the flesh, a human business card saying nobody tops the white ju-ju man. He shuddered at the thought of having to try.

"Tie her to the chair," he instructed. "I'll be back in a minute." He disappeared into another room, and soon returned with several bags of gear. The first thing he set out were some skull-like Sampson candles, one of the coffee table, one in front of the door and one at Kim's feet, right on the floor, just out of range of her kicks. The room was soon filled with the smell of incense. "Ya'll just stay back now, I need some space. When did she come home?"

"An hour ago," Bart told him. "She was trying to sneak into her room by the window."

"Can you help her?" Sarah asked. "Can you help my baby?"

Little Spider was sprinkling spirit vexing powder in a ring all around the chair—Kim followed him with her eyes—he backed off when he was through.

"I don' know. This is powerful root that done this. We got to be careful here."

With that, he reached into one of his bags and extracted a twisted length of root carved with the impressions of tiny faces. The knob above his hand was fashioned into a wicked serpent's head. He dipped the head into a bowl of oil he had poured out and flung the drops three times at Kim's face. She jerked and cried out each time.

"Damballah, Damballah, wadi nimbelo, wadi nimbelo. Daddy Exu crosses, Daddy Exu spits. Wadi nimbelo, wadi nimbelo."

He took the Obeah stick and made an X through the ring of powder he had just sprinkled around the chair. Kim stared down at the sign in horror and began twisting violently to get loose. She soon exhausted herself and gave up, jerking and twitching spasmodically from time to time.

Little Spider returned the stick and the root to his bag and removed a tiny box, a wooden box lacquered and inlaid with blue stones. He shook the box a few times with both hands, holding it to his ears as if he were listening for something. He shook it a few more times, listened again. Finally, he seemed satisfied and cautiously cracked it open, just wide enough to peep inside.

He lay the box carefully down on the floor, just outside the circle of powder, and gingerly reached inside with an index finger, fishing for something. At last, he pulled out a string, which he extended to its full length before standing up again. When he was ready—his face and neck were covered with sweat now—he nudged the lid of the box open with his feet and yanked out a large, bristly black spider, which swung dangling at the end of the string. He let it rock back and forth for a few seconds, before dropping it right into Kim's lap, never releasing the string. The tarantula, for that was what it looked like, clung to her hide and began a slow, relentless march up her leg toward her stomach.

"What are you doing?" Sarah cried. Bart had to hold her back.

"Don't speak!" Little Spider hissed. "Don't disturb the circle!" He continued to pay out string, letting the spider clamber its way up her stomach and chest, until it strained at the limit of its string, just below her neck, tail curled up in a rigid question mark, poised to strike.

"You hear me, don' you?" Little Spider asked. He pulled back on the string to keep the spider from advancing any further. Kim eyed the thing wildly, her head perfectly still, afraid to move at all. Her breathing was very shallow, the hissing now almost audible. "You hear me now." He let the spider advance another inch until its forelegs just tickled the underside of her chin.

"You cain't fight the power of the spider, Kim Millen. You know you cain't. You come back for a reason. You come back to do the Daddy's work, ain't you? Tell me what you come back for."

She gurgled and choked and gasped when the spider advanced still closer to her mouth. She closed her eyes and shrank back, trying to turn her face away but it was useless.

"What's the Daddy sent you back for? Is it to kill these people? You cain't fight the spider—you know that—you may as well answer now 'cause the spider he do what I say. I'm the son of Dr. Spider hisself and you know who that is, don' you?"

She started violently and Little Spider had to yank the spider off to keep it from biting. He swung the thing at the end of its string, right in front of her face.

"You come here to put the death hex on these people, ain't you?"

This time, almost imperceptible, there was a nod. A wheezing sort of nod. Little Spider manipulated the string until he had dropped the spider right on top of her head. It clung there for a minute, before slowly easing its way down toward her right ear.

"We gon' turn this hex around, you hear me, Kim Millen? We gon' turn the Daddy's magic against him." When she shook her head, whether in disagreement or to throw the spider off, wasn't clear, Little Spider released the string altogether and let the spider go free. It made its way inexorably down the side of her head until it plopped onto her shoulder and began probing the tough skin of her neck and cheek with its forelegs. "We gon' do the work of Dr. Spider now."

With the spider resting quietly on her shoulder, Little Spider reached into his bag and this time withdrew a small jar. He opened it and began daubing some light blue cream on Kim's face. He went at this task slowly, methodically, making certain arachnid designs on her forehead and temples, all the time muttering chants and incantations almost inaudibly. From time to time, Kim would turn her head and resist the application of the cream but each time, she would feel again the feathery touch of the spider on her shoulder, poised to strike at any second, and she would just as quickly give up the struggle and sit still for a while longer.

In a few minutes, Little Spider had virtually covered her face with markings. In the flickering glow of the candles, she looked like something leprous and scabrous, a hideous gangrenous thing scarcely human, scarcely imaginable, a beast more at home in the putrid bogs of the inner swamp than to be sitting in a wooden chair in someone's den. Off in the corner, Sarah closed her eyes and wept softly.

"This hex be dead, Kim Millen. You know that. You cain't carry out the hex—your arms be too stiff for that. You cain't touch the amulet Daddy X give you now 'cause it burn your hands like the fires of Hell. Now—" he hoisted the spider from her shoulders and gently put it back in the box—"you gon' do Dr. Spider's bidding. Dr. Spider has the power. You listen to me good and do what I say."

Again, the barely perceptible nod. She sat perfectly still in the chair now, hardly breathing.

"You go back to the lair of the Daddy. Go back and bring me a piece of his skin. You know how to do this, don' you? Bring me a piece of his skin from the crotch of his legs, at the center of his vitality and power. Put it in an envelope or pouch, but don' get it wet. Keep it dry and bring it back to me here. You understand this?"

The nod was a little stronger this time. Kim twitched a bit, as if coming out of a trance. She shrugged her shoulders, still feeling the light touch of the spider there, still cringing and remembering. Little Spider did nothing to shake the illusion.

"I'm gon' release you now. I'm gon' let you go. But the spider he be with you every step of the way. You got to choose the right path, Kim Millen, 'cause if you don't, you know what will happen. The spider he be with you everywhere. You remember that."

He took out the Obeah stick again and cut the ring of powder in two places, one of each side of the X he had made. This broke the circle and allowed the energy trapped inside to escape. The Sampson candles flickered and blew out and the room was dark for a moment.

"What happened?" Bart asked. He heard the sound of a scuffle, someone grunting and the chair tipping over. He let go of Sarah and groped along the wall for the light switch he had seen by the door. The door swung open right in front of him and a shape shuffled out into the hall. The air was stirred by the opening of the door and a strong smell of swamp water musk drifted in. He knew that smell.

"Kim!"

Someone grabbed his arm and held him back. The lights came on again, just in time for him to see his daughter disappearing around the corner, heading for the stairway.

"Kim!"

"Don't follow!" Little Spider said. He pulled Bart back into the room. "Stay away!"

"We can find Daddy X," Bart said. "She'll take us right to him. This is our chance."

Little Spider shook his head and strengthened his grip on Bart's arm. He firmly guided him back inside the apartment and shut the door.

"You'd never get close. This is the only way, believe me. With a piece of skin, we can make a strong counterhex. We can find him then and destroy him once and for all. But you got to be patient."

Sarah had gone over to the window above the steam radiator. She stared down at the darkened street and saw a shadow moving across the pavement, picking its way through haphazard piles of trash.

"Look—I see her, right there!"

They all came over to the window.

Bart watched the Kim-thing slouching off toward the river bank. He took a deep breath and found his throat was dry. "I don't know. I just don't know."

Sarah looked up at him. "You think we're doing the right thing?"

"I don't know what to think anymore." He had a strong premonition that they would never see their daughter alive again.

2.

Two days passed and Kim did not return. Little Spider grew more restless by the hour, especially having to answer the constant phone calls the Millens made, wondering, seeking reassurance, just needing to talk. Bart Millen had wanted to come out Sunday night and discuss things but Little Spider had vetoed that. He knew the man was looking for some kind of understanding, some kind of certainty that it would all work out for the best. But Little Spider couldn't do that; he knew he couldn't bring it off.

Papa has the power, the one and only power. What he had was at best a poor imitation.

So he waited. He spent the hours drinking, watching TV, making up a new batch of Rose of Crucifixion oil to guard against the spirits Daddy X would soon be sending his way. He prowled the empty, rat-infested apartments of the housing project looking, for what he didn't know, just looking. By Monday night, he was numb with apprehension and the gnawing fear that something had gone terribly wrong.

He sat on the floor by the makeshift coffee table, scratching doodles in the plywood with a kitchen knife. He tried to think, to deal with the matter like he knew Papa would.

His firmest suspicion was that Kim Millen had returned to Daddy X, as expected, but that he was holding her, aware somehow of the counterhex. He was holding her until that dumb buckra Sheriff Tatum called off his search. Him and his fucking Marines tramping all over the woods again like a bunch of Boy Scouts—it was ridiculous. Nobody was going to trap the Alligator Man like that. Little Spider snorted at the thought of it and jammed the knife upright into the plywood.

The thing to do was to go pay Tatum a little visit and try to explain the futility of the manhunt. After all, Kim Millen had already come home and gone off again. He had heard through talk that there were other children missing; of course, it was no great secret where they were. But to hunt down Daddy X this way was laughable and bound to fail. It made the white folks feel better but so what. You might as well hunt deer with a bulldozer.

Little Spider left his apartment and got into his truck. It was after ten o'clock and he didn't know if the Sheriff would be at his office, at home or out in the woods, looking behind every tree that came along. But he had to find him. They had Daddy X almost within reach and he wasn't going to let any clumsy buckra goon blow it for them now.

He drove by the Sheriff's Department at the County Annex Building and the night radio dispatcher, Louise Gorman, told him the Sheriff had gone home for a few hours' sleep. "They called the search for the night, on account of the fog being so bad. You want me to ring him?"

Little Spider said no and thanked her just the same. He drove on out to Tatum's cottage on Duck Lane, a few miles on the Bayville side of the village of Frogland. He pulled his truck into the dirt turnaround and got out. It was a small, wood frame structure, with gray asbestos siding and peeling shutters. There were no lights on inside when he knocked on the front door.

Presently, the Sheriff arrived at the door and unlocked it with a great commotion of epithets and clattering metal. He opened the door and switched on the porch light, standing there squinting in a T-shirt and beige pajama bottoms. His hair was wet from a recent shower.

"Oh. It's you. What the hell do you want this time of night?"

Little Spider stuck his hands in his pockets. "I got to talk, Sheriff. It's about that Millen kid."

Instantly, Tatum came awake, rubbing sleep from his eyes with the palms of his hands. "What about the Millen kid? You find her or something?"

"I want you to call off your search. Just for a while. Give me a chance to find her my way."

Tatum scratched his head and mumbled for Little Spider to come on in. He shut the door behind him. They stood in the darkened living room for a minute before Tatum thought to turn on the light over his favorite recliner. He sat down, then lay back yawning, motioning for Little Spider to find a seat too. But he didn't—he remained standing by the door.

"How'd the hell you get into this anyway?"

Little Spider explained how the Millens had come to him, out of desperation, and how they had sought the services of Dr. Spider himself. He told him about Kim coming back and how he had put a counterhex on her and sent her off to bring back a piece of Daddy X. Tatum sat their quietly, throughout the story, absentmindedly smoothing the T-shirt over his paunch, straightening out all the wrinkles.

"Why the hell didn't you contact me, son? You knew we had the boys out looking for that child. Why on God's green earth did you ever let her go like that?"

Little Spider always had to remember, when he was dealing with buckra like Sheriff Tatum, what his teacher at the Cole Center, Alice Aikens, had once told him about dealing with small children: "You be's nice and sweet to 'em when they that young 'cause they don' know no better about things. Everything's like a fairy tale when you be that young." He'd always thought of Verne Tatum as a simple-minded innocent when it came to the mysteries and the magic of root.

"Because it's the onliest way we got of getting to Daddy X and putting him out of business for good. That's what this is all about, Sheriff. Daddy X. You know: the Alligator Man."

Tatum scowled. "I know who you mean. And I ain't withdrawing my men from this search for all the gold in Fort Knox. We're gonna hunt down this spook once and for all and put an end to his terrorizing my county."

Little Spider shook his head sadly. He decided he would take a seat after all and fixed himself to a small ottoman that Tatum had pulled over to prop his feet up on. "Won't be as easy as all that. And you know what I mean. Daddy X has been hiding out in those woods for a long time."

"I don't care. This root business has gone far enough. I'm under a lot of pressure, from the Mayor, from the newspaper, from the County Commission, you name it, to get results from this dragnet. Hell, even the damn Governor called me this morning. I can still hear that vulture screeching over the phone: 'You got to do something, you got to do something. It's going all over the nation and people are saying we're having a veritable crime wave down here. What'll they say, what'll they do? Think of the tourists.' Well, fuck the tourists. Fuck the Governor. I've had enough of this root crap, Willie, you know that? It's cute and kind of interesting, like seashells on the beach, but we're grown men and we got a man's job to do. I intend to carry out my duty like a man."

Little Spider studied the Sheriff's face and saw how red and livid the pock marks were on his neck and chin. That was how you knew the man was serious. Tatum rubbed them self-consciously.

"I'm telling you, Sheriff, that Daddy X won't play your game. He ain't about to give up what's worked so well for him the last ten years. He's got you right where he wants you: desperate, on the verge of panic, calling out the damned Marines, it's just what he wants, just what he loves. It feeds him, makes the legend grow even more, especially since he can get away so easily. You got to go at it differently. You got to be smart and play his game and beat him with the root. It's what he understands."

Tatum rubbed his eyes wearily. They looked like blue pinpricks in the doughy mass of his face. He looked tired, more tired than Little Spider had ever seen him.

"What the hell do you want me to do?"

"Stop your search. Pull your men out of the woods. Just give me forty-eight hours. That's all I need. By then, Daddy X will know he's got a death hex on him and he'll have to take steps to deal with it. That's when he be most vulnerable—when we have him running scared. He's got some kind of power over this child but that power be hard to tame sometimes. We're gon' use that power against him. We just have to be patient."

Tatum sighed. "The Mayor's going to cuss me from here to hell and back for being a damn fool. Ask me if I believe in the tooth fairy and things like that. What am I supposed to say? Tell me that."

"You jus' tell him that a body don' go out to sea to go fishing if don't have a fishing line with him."

Tatum grunted getting out of the recliner. He spied a cockroach scuttling across the floor and grabbed for the evening newspaper to swat it. He missed and it scuttled under a crack in the baseboard.

"All right. Forty eight hours. Not a minute more. If you ain't produced that child and Daddy X by then, I ain't got no more choice but to send in the cavalry. If you can't root him out, we'll have to flush him out. One way or another."

Little Spider was already heading for the door. "Agreed. You just take yourself a little vacation for a few days and leave these things to Dr. Spider. I'll be in touch."

Tatum stood on the porch and watched Little Spider climb back into his truck.

"As you know, the law never rests," he yelled back. But the sound of the engine drowned him out and Little Spider sped off down the drive without ever looking back. Tatum spat into the dirt at the foot of the steps and kicked at another cockroach making tracks across the porch. "Even when it's dog-tired and aching for a beer," he added to himself. He went back inside and slammed the door.

Little Spider checked his watch as he drove back toward town. Just short of 2 A.M. It was Tuesday now, the middle of the month, and Dr. Spider wouldn't be back at his cabin for another week, at the earliest. He'd taken the initiative in working with the Millen girl and he knew he had done what his Papa would have wanted and done it the way it was supposed to be done. He had forgotten all those sweltering afternoons and evenings spent in the "closet" back of Mama's canning table, learning the practice backwards and forwards. Still, it made him uncomfortable, doing root this way, completely on his own, when the man they really needed was hunkered down in one of his many thinking holes somewhere in the woods. It was time, he realized, as he sped across the bridge into Bayville, that he paid Papa a little visit. See how he was coming in his efforts to concoct something that would work against the white witch doctor. He had to admit that he was badly in need of a little reassurance too.

The only question was which thinking hole would he be at? He had dozens scattered around the woods north and east of Bayville, little laces only he knew about, protected by magic circles from intruders and evil spirits and nosy hunters and the like. He could be at any of them.

Little Spider pondered this as he drove on through town and headed out along U.S. 21 toward Gallivant Road. It was black and deserted along this stretch of the highway and he eased the truck over to where it was riding the center line like a railroad car on a track. He put his mind to work, conjuring up the way he figured Papa would think about something like this, putting himself right into the head of the grizzled old root doctor, communing with whatever spurious thoughts might come along.

Where would be at this time of the month?

Little Spider smiled in the darkness as she slowed down to make the turn-off. He missed a gear and the engine chewed metal until he re-engaged but it didn't matter. He laughed out loud and turned up Gallivant Road, double clutching to get back to speed.

Damn if it wasn't getting easier every day. He knew without a doubt where Papa would be. It was clear and obvious, right there in front of him, the way it always had been, the way Papa had always told him it would be if only he would open his eyes and look. Exhilarating—that was the only way you could describe it. He grinned and started laughing, looking out ahead through the windshield. The road was still and dark but not if you had the right kind of eyes. For the ones with the power, that straight-shot two-lane blacktop was like a tunnel bathed in spotlights, arrowing on ahead, right up to the wide grinning mouth of none other than the Alligator Man himself.

You ain't got a chance in hell of getting away this time, Mr. Daddy Man.

He aimed the nose of his truck right for the pearly white teeth of that wide, beckoning grin.

3.

He found Dr. Spider just where he expected and he wasn't particularly surprised that his coming had been anticipated for quite some time. They sat together for many minutes, in perfect silence, with only the screech of crickets and the distant gurgle of a creek for company. It was dense and tangled, a wild place of the primitive Earth they were in, a forest within the forest, out of time and out of place and lost in the trackless depths of an arboreal village of trees and vines run riot. There was a canopy of pine and sweetgum branches overhead, a baroque kind of vegetable dome that sheltered them from any view of what lay beyond the little clearing. Blacker than the underside of a rock and crawling with worms and slugs and arachnoid shapes without name, the dirt seemed alive and throbbing with the vital heartbeat of the Earth itself. Everywhere he turned, the stringy mesh of newly spun webs clung to his face, until he was at last, firmly and hopelessly entangled and gave up the fight to stay free. It was part of the ritual, part of the knowing, Papa had always said, to let the spiders touch your face with their feathery legs, probing and picking and stroking like a faint breath of wind. They could sense, they could tell when you had the power and if there was one thing he'd always insisted on, it was understanding this: that they would take the power away too, if they saw the need to; they could make you a mere mortal in the twinkling of an eye and if you weren't careful when they streamed down your forehead and licked at your eyeballs and dangled their furry legs into your ear and pranced their way across your lips, if you weren't real careful, you'd be a dead mortal too, swollen and choking with the poisons they carried in their body sacs, no longer possessor of the one power unique in all the world, the power to command the spirits to do your bidding. You'd be a bag of lifeless flesh and nothing more, and soon enough, food for the beetles and the roaches and the other things that crawled in the dirt.

Such was the nature of having the power.

Little Spider felt the presence of his Papa more by the sickly sweet smell of the dried snake skins he wore than by feel. In the black, a ring of red suddenly glowed—the bowl of his pipe. He heard the sound of lips sucking on the stem.

"I knew you would come here," he said at last. The pipe smoke was acrid and thick, eye-stinging. Above the glow of the bowl, he could see the gleam of the old man's eyes. "We got many hard days ahead."

Little Spider scratched in the dirt with a sharp stick he had found. "Papa, I need to know. That's why I came. Can we beat the Alligator Man? Can you turn his tricks and put him under the earth like you said?"

There was a long silence, a dispiriting silence Little Spider thought, full of measured breaths and the wheezes of old age.

"The white witch doctor is a strong man. I don't know where his power comes from. It takes time."

"We haven't got time, Papa. I had to argue with the Sheriff for forty-eight hours as it was, just to give us room and a little more time to do a trick on Daddy X."

Dr. Spider snorted. "Buckra are always impatient. Always bulldozing, wherever they go. Root don't work like that."

"Root ain't gon' have time to work if we don't produce some results soon."

Dr. Spider regarded his son cautiously. "I'm an old man, Willie Amos. I teached you everything I know about root and showed you that you do have the power and still I cannot make it sink in. Your Mama was right; you do have a skull harder than rock. What you gon' do after I'm gone and folks come to you looking for solace and comfort, saying help me Little Spider, just like your Papa did, help me with this, help me with that, begging you to do them good like I done for all these long years. What you gon' say, Little Spider? 'I ain't got the power. I ain't in the business anymore. I'm hangin'up my shingle and goin' to work in the town, for the cafeteria.' Is that what you gon' say? You—the son of the legendary Dr. Spider and the legendary Papa Heyward before that and the legendary Uncle Kory before him."

"Papa, don't talk like that."

"The loa won't let you do this, Willie Amos. You cain't deny what you be, what you been all along. You are a man of the root and the sooner you realize that and give up this idea of bein' like other man, the better off you be. You are touched with a sacred duty and you cain't run from it."

Somehow, it always came to this. Little Spider sighed and leaned back against the sweetgum tree.

"I cain't fight you, Papa. I cain't fight you and Daddy X and Sheriff Tatum and India Haynes and all those fellows at work. I be overwhelmed. I don't know what to do or think anymore. Coming over here, I knew I could do the root, I could feel it, I had this tingle and I could see, papa, I could see where you were, even though in my own mind, I didn't know for sure. But now, when I come here and sit with you and talk with you, I'm a small man again and I cain't do it at all, I cain't. It ain't part of me like it is with you. It ain't like an arm or a leg. More of an ache, deep inside me. And I know what that ache is now. It ain't the power, like you say, wanting to get out and do tricks. It ain't that at all. It's me, me, Papa, trying to stand on my tiptoes like when I was a boy and be as tall as you. I see now what it is and I don' like it but I cain't hide from it. I ain't never gon' be as tall as you. Never. Cain't you see that?"

Dr. Spider puffed on his pipe; the ring of red brightened momentarily before fading. He appeared to have come to a decision.

"You know that Daddy X has put a death hex on me. My days is numbered now. You have to carry on if I die."

"That's ridiculous, Papa. You've had death hexes on you before. You defeated them all."

"I don' know the true source of Daddy X's power. This is the final battle, Willie, and I ain't sure what's gon' happen. Ain't sure at all. My bones be aching sorely these days. There is only so many tricks to turn a hex and after that—"

"Papa, there are no limits to the power. You told me that yourself—don' you remember? What are you doing now to fight the Daddy?"

Dr. Spider groped for the amulet he always kept attached to his belt and rubbed it gently drawing sustenance from its mixture of potent powders and sacred talismans.

"I have found one of the Daddy's thinkin' holes. Many years I looked—they said he didn't have none, they said he lived in the belly of a giant gator or buried himself in the mud of a creek bank when he wasn't out stalking victims but it ain't so. I seen his thinkin' hole."

"Where is it?"

"It's under the water, Willie. Under the Combahee River, not far from that old Casey bridge where the wrecked car lies on the bottom." He was clutching the amulet now, squeezing it hard. "I am going there tomorrow night. I am gon' turn that water into acid and force Daddy X to come up where I can see him. Where I can deal with him face to face. No one ever seen him face to face."

"And lived," Little Spider said. "I want to be there, Papa. I want to come with you."

"No. This I do alone. It be dangerous, a big trick that I do. You ain't never seen it. You could get hurt."

"I want to come, Papa."

Dr. Spider looked over at his son. For the first time, his eyes were faintly visible in the dim glow of the pipe. They were black onyx eyes, luminous with anticipation of the great challenge ahead, sparkling like the surf at midnight. He shook his head slowly.

"You best stay in town. You ain't tall enough, remember? You best stay in town with the others. Keep that buckra Sheriff busy. Comfort the families and tell them the last battle be underway, even as they sleep." His eyes flashed and he seemed to gain vigor from his own words.

"Tell them Daddy X be gone from these woods after tomorrow."
Chapter 21

1.

Dr. Spider lay open the bag he had just finished packing and checked its contents. Only a single candle burned on the table and its wan glow cast throbbing shadows up onto the tall screen around the table. It was nigh onto midnight this torrid, feverish Tuesday night, the hag-hollerin' time by the reckoning of most souls, and the chain of teeth and bone bits in the necklace around his neck chattered uncontrollably as he counted and stowed the powerful instruments of his trade.

He was not about to enter combat with Daddy X, the Alligator Man, the walking gator, the King of the Snakes, without being prepared.

For the trick he was about to do, he had need of any things: there was cat's eye and a black candle, the Obeah stick and a ruby-studded mandrake root, hexing dolls and mullein leaves, jinxing salts and compelling oils, a dried mummified toad and a battered old straw case called a macoute, full to bursting with devil stones and Rose of Crucifixion oil and John the Conqueror root and boxes of agate and beryl and other magical gems.

All of this he packed most carefully into the old leather flight bag Willie had brought him when he'd come back to Bay County ten years ago, just like the talking rock had said he would.

When he was through, there remained only one thing left to do before he could set out meet the Great Adversary of the Swamps. He would have to make sure this cabin was crossed and sealed against all evil, for if did not, if he returned one black moonless night to find that the holy center, the heart of the heart, of all his powers had been penetrated, then he would be like the oarsman without an oar, adrift in an ocean far more mighty and unpredictable than any ever sailed before, cut loose in the land of the plat-eye and the tree trolls and the fog faces with no hope of protection or command.

He would sooner die than face such a prospect.

He extracted a bottle of Rose of Crucifixion oil and sprinkled it in a circle around the inside of the cabin, taking care to connect both ends of the circle right in front of the door. Then he made a large X with some Get-Away powder, and after carefully backing out of the cabin and down the stoop a total of nine paces, he sprinkled a mixture of red pepper and saltpeter and brimstone in front of the steps, thus completing the seal. He studied his work for a few minutes, brushing away the gnats and the mosquitos from his face, straining his eyes to find anything amiss, anything he might have forgotten. But there was nothing and he smiled to himself at his thorough efficiency. Whatever else happened, at least the cabin would be safe. There were precious few sanctuaries for a man of the root nowadays.

He hiked a short distance, about ten minutes, through the woods south of the cabin, noting with amusement that the creatures of the night were unnaturally still and quiet tis evening, perhaps out of respect. None of the raucous screeching so common to the woods—now they were silent sentries, regarding him curiously as he set out on the final mission. His skin was alive with an electric tingle, something he hadn't felt in years, not since he'd had to put the death hex on Sammy Bridey when he went berserk with that poleax and tried to hack him to pieces one stormy night. Doing battle with opposing forces had always brought his blood up pumping and he was pleased to see that the old ticker hadn't quite rusted out. It was a good omen, this energy he felt, and he fairly flew along the dirt path down to the tidal creek where he kept the old canoe berthed.

He swung his bag into the back of the canoe and untied it from the tree trunk. Then he lowered himself down and settled himself on his knees, groping in the dark for the paddle. It lay on the dock and he used it to push himself away from the banks and the scummy shallows out into deeper, faster running water. He turned himself and let the current carry him downstream toward the Combahee River itself.

Yes, sir, it was a fine night for doing tricks. A fine night indeed.

Once he had made the river, he paddled a bit with the current, taking care to avoid the treacherous shoals and submerged tree stumps. He didn't know how to swim and if a body weren't careful, he could find himself gulping water in no time if his boat capsized on one of those hazards. But he knew the river well, even in the dead black middle of a moonless night, so there would be no problem as long as he kept his eyes open and the canoe straight in the water. He felt a cool sea breeze drifting up the channel and stopped for a few minutes to rest his aching arm and back.

Soon enough, he came upon the old Casey bridge, and steered the canoe under its pilings and over to the near bank. The bottom sloped up steeply here, in the reed-choked shallows along the mud, and the nose of the canoe upended and nearly dumped him out before he had the thing securely beached. He scrambled out and up onto the bank, dragging the canoe up with him. It was heavier than it used to be but the ground was smooth and wet, slippery enough for him to manage after a few minutes. He turned the canoe its side and fished in his bag for the one instrument he had brought that was not part of a root doctor's usual bag of tricks.

A powerful battery-driven underwater floodlight that Little Spider had gotten from Looby Pitts at Hedrick's Marine.

With this light, he hoped, he would at last be able to gaze upon the face of the Alligator Man himself, and know the terrible visage that had haunted these woods and waters for far too long already. He wanted to know that God-cursed face well before he put it to rest once and for all.

Dr. Spider spent a few minutes rigging up some twine netting to hold the lamp securely to the bottom of the canoe. He ran a length of cord to the ON/OFF switch on the handle and then looped the ends of the twine several times around the canoe so that it would stay put when he got back into the water. He then tied the lamp itself into the netting and cinched the knots up tight, giving them an experimental tug to make sure.

He sat for a moment on the side of the bank and stared out at the middle of the river. A tenuous mist had rolled up the channel from the mouth and now obscured anything on the other side.

Somewhere out there, below the surface—Daddy X lay waiting. He could feel it, as surely as he could feel the ghostly touch of the fog now thickening. Out There was the heart, the heart of the heart, the central node in the web of the Alligator Man's terror, and he would smash it tonight, smash it beyond repair. Before the sun came up, there would be only root doctor in Bay County, of that he was quite sure.

Before he shoved the canoe back into the water, Dr. Spider extracted the implements he had once stolen from Daddy X, many years before. He studied them now, puzzling at their metallic form, sucking what little meaning he could from their dull hard glint. The round disk marked "REG" and its faintly smiling black rubber lips. The long-stemmed metal tube. He was sure they were important, they were the key to everything. For good measure, he opened the gris-gris bag attached to his belt and placed the amulets inside with his own personal charms and tokens. There they would stay throughout the battle, an extra advantage as he saw it, the keys to the Alligator man's power surrounded and smothered by the almighty force that had been his to command for so many years. Smothered just like he would presently do to this Infernal Enemy.

He grunted and heaved and slid the canoe back down the bank into the water.

He paddled for a few minutes, going across current, straight across the river, into that opaque murk of fog, then tucking in the oar and letting the canoe drift downriver toward the spot where he knew the Adversary's lair to be. He hadn't counted on the fog being so thick—it was necessary for him to be able to see the bank. His marker was there, the X he had slashed out of the bark of the pine tree that leaned so far out over the water. He squinted, looking for that mark, and then he saw it, and quickly dumped his homemade anchor of pots full of creek stones overboard. The canoe jerked at the end of the rope but seemed to hold.

He was motionless in the water. Time to switch on the floodlight.

Something bumped against the canoe—a piece of log perhaps—and he waited until the boat had stopped rocking before he withdrew the white pouch of jinxing salt and the vial of compelling oil. The dried toad would be next and he took the carcass out and carefully lay it along side of the bag. When the time came to mix these substances, he wanted to have them readily available.

He pulled on the cord and the light came on. Instantly, a plume of brilliance spread out just beneath the surface of the water. Cautiously, he leaned over and peered down.

At first, he could see nothing. It was like looking down into a vat of milk. Brown sediment billowed up and into view and it was plain to see that something was stirring along the bottom, agitating the water. A few seconds later, he saw what.

There were forms moving, shapes long and sinuous, serpentine things flitting just beyond resolution. They were alligators, he soon realized, stirred to a frenzy by the light, dozens of them, swarming along the bottom, nosing in and out of the light, their spade snouts yawning wide, staring up at him with teeth bared and eyes slitted. The river bottom was alive with them and their agitation soon stirred the water so that the surface broke with ripples and small waves and the canoe began to rock back and forth.

He blinked and looked again, holding on to the side to keep from being bobbed right overboard. One of the gators had turned face on to the light and now thrashed its way languidly toward the boat. It was impossible, it couldn't be, but there it was. Dr. Spider closed his eyes. The gator crashed into the underside of the canoe and scraped along until it was free. Then it broke the surface and leered back at him.

And it had a human face.

There was mistaking it, even in the rolling banks of fog, a human face, a child's face, armored in hide, to be sure, and horribly misshapen into something approximating a reptile, with vivid blue and red veins standing out just under its heavy eyelids, but a child nonetheless. A beastly, gagging, half-hybrid miscreant, not quite either but trapped in the netherworld between human and animal and there bobbing not ten feet away with a sickly, smirking grin, the swollen folds of its hideous skin beating with the heart of something so unspeakably alien and repulsive that to look at it for more than a few seconds was to go numb with shock and fall faint and sick denying that such a thing could ever exist.

Dr. Spider shook himself free of its hypnotic glare and fumbled for the pouch of salt and the vial of oil. There wasn't a moment to waste.

Hands trembling, with one eye constantly on the now growing circle of beasts ringing the canoe, he cut open the dried toad and sprinkled in a carefully measured amount of salt and oil. Mixed with its desiccated entrails, the compound bubbled and popped and soon gave off a putrid vomitous vapor that billowed out of the canoe and drove the gators back a few yards further, baying and snorting. When the bubbling had stopped, he looped a length of twine around the toad's legs, drawing them together, then hoisted the thing up and dropped it over the edge, trailing it in the water behind. The effect was instantaneous.

There was a great commotion and thrashing as the gators fought each other trying to get away. For several minutes, the talisman worked, staining the river with a powerful scent that soon cleared the water around the canoe for a distance of nearly twenty yards. The toad carcass dangled at the end of its line, bobbing on the surface, keeping the creatures at bay. The water churned and foamed from their fury.

When he was sure they would keep their distance, Dr. Spider set to work preparing the hex he had designed to roust the Alligator Man from his lair.

He had brought along an old slightly chipped porcelain cup in the flight bag and he drew the cup out and filled it half full with a mixture of compelling oil and crushed mullein leaves, stirring the concoction with the end of a stick. It gave off a resinous stench, a good sign, Dr. Spider noted with satisfaction. When he had the portions thoroughly blended, he dropped in three devil stones and let the liquid simmer for a minute. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the gators circling restlessly, always probing the edges of the strong Get-Away scent, ready to strike the moment the talisman began to weaken.

Dr. Spider knew he didn't have long.

There remained one step. From an inner lining of the flight bag, he withdrew the gnarled mandrake root. Calling upon every power at his command, he spoke with the demons and the trolls and the wraiths and the phantoms, conjuring them from their thinking holes, calling them forth with every imprecation he could devise, imploring them to leave their sanctuaries deep in the woods and come to him and be with him and fill the mandrake with the power of the ages, the strength of the trees, the mystery of the ocean, the force of the winds, inhabit the mandrake and give me the power to make this river boil and seethe with the very fires of Hell itself.

He let the root lay loosely in the palm of his hands and when at last it twitched and trembled and burned with the accumulating forces of the woods spirits so that he could barely hold it, he smiled and passed it three times over the porcelain cup until the mixture fumed with dense blue-white smoke.

Now at last, he was ready.

But before he could sprinkle the Sword of Victor oil into the river, the canoe rocked steeply to one side and he was nearly spilled into the water himself. He clung to the cup and kept most of the oil from falling out. He craned over the edge of the canoe to see what had caused the impact.

The water underneath was turbid and silty, even in the glare of the floodlight. At first, he saw nothing, but that soon changed. Even as he watched, the milky water resolved itself into a shape, unrecognizable at first, but slowly materializing into a huge, serpentine thing, a gator of sorts, but much larger than usual and curiously malformed, bulky and awkward in the water and sporting the burning red eyes he had heard so much about all these years. It circled just underneath the canoe for a few seconds, causing the water to roil and foam and rock the boat back and forth. The toad carcass seemed to have no effect.

He knew without a doubt that he was staring face to face with none other than Daddy X himself.

Just then, the Alligator Man lunged for the surface and broke free, thrashing and geysering the water in a huge explosion of foam. Dr. Spider wasted no time in pitching the porcelain cup overboard, flinging the Sword of Victor oil right in the face of the man they called the King of the Snakes. He gripped the mandrake root tightly and clung with his other hand to the edge of the boat, waiting for the violent death throes to come.

The Alligator Man shrieked like a banshee and swung his big tail around, snapping the canoe into fragments as if it were made of paper. Dr. Spider fell overboard, unable to swim, flailing desperately in the water, as the other gators began to move in. He bobbed and clawed and gagged for air but it was hopeless and he knew it.

No use to fightin', he told himself. He spied the gaping jaws of a score of gators speeding right for him. He looked in vain for some sign that the Sword of Victor oil had struck home. Die, you God-cursed beast, die. He floundered, at the end of his strength, straining to keep the mandrake root out of the water, waving and aiming and hurling all the sorcery he could muster, but still the Alligator Man seemed unaffected, floating off some distance while the hungry squadron of his minions closed in, snapping and snorting with delight at their helpless prey. Eyes gleaming orange, that hollow, metallic hissing filling all the air and the woods like a mocking laugh. It was Da, Damballah, the serpent god himself he was up against, it was all very clear now there be others after me, Daddy X, who take up the battle. You ain't through with Spider yet, not by a long shot. They were getting closer now, he could smell the musky scent, see the scarred rows of teeth half hidden behind the gristled folds of hide, they were all around, bumping, scraping against his legs, the water, the hissing, the burning fires....

Blood and pain and darkness and it was all over.

As Dr. Spider's lifeless corpse sank beneath the surface. Streaming blood and skin and bone on its last descent to the river bed, Daddy X swam over to the tiny canoe and thrashed the remnants of the boat to pieces, making sure that they too sank without a trace in the murky water.

He retrieved the floodlight, still shining brightly, and the intact amulet bags, before the stern of the canoe slipped underwater. Then he swam off toward the shore.

He had won a great victory tonight. He would be sure that the town of Bayville knew of it before dawn.
Chapter 22

1.

Opal Lee Pitts sucked at her pipe and scratched the stump where once she had had a left arm. It wasn't even nine o'clock yet and already the mosquitos were as thick as fire smoke in the maintenance yard of the Bay County Sanitation Department. Pretty soon, the men would be off to work, riding the roads and highways of the county, picking up white folks' trash. They'd be back at the yard before five, though and then the fun would begin, with everybody plowing through the day's garbage looking for things of value. Sometimes, you might find an old radio that could be fixed up. Maybe some clothes or a piece of furniture someone didn't want to bother with repairing. It was amazing what the white folks threw out sometimes. She sucked on her pipe some more and regarded the faces of the two men standing beside her.

One of them was Boulder Bevins, already shiny with sweat, his bald head glistening like a polished eight-ball. He had just come from an early-morning delivery of fill dirt to the county landfill on the other side of the river, a bit south of the Byron Presser Bridge. They were working on a parking lot for the Royal Grove Shopping Center there and Boulder worked extra hours some days to fatten his paycheck a bit. The other man was Willis Haynes, who was the night janitor at the County Annex Building, just now getting off work.

The three of them had been meeting for coffee and peanut butter crackers in the parking lot of the maintenance yard for years.

"What you think it's gon' mean?" Willis asked. He was working on his fly, which seemed to be stuck at the moment. Opal was used to the crudity of her men friends; she had always taken some pride in the belief that she could outcuss the best of them. It served her well in her business dealings with those men from Tampa. "What we gon' do without Dr. Spider now?"

Boulder Bevins hopped up into the seat of the truck cab and sat there sipping his coffee with his long legs dangling out. He thought for a moment. "Means that Daddy X got the upper hand now. We got to be watching out steps in the days ahead."

"I don't like it," said Opal. "How'm I gon' get relief for when my stump starts to bothering me? Some nights, it's like it was full of hot needs, just twisting back and forth in there."

"Little Spider, I guess," said Willis. "He be about the only one left."

Opal scoffed. "Little Spider couldn't hex his way out of a phone booth, believe me. Boys, we's in a bad way."

"What can we do?"

Boulder munched on some crackers. They were stale and chewy. "It's a sure thing Bay County's gon' be a dangerous place to be for a while. We'd best be watching our steps."

"We ought to take that Millen family and offer 'em up for sacrifice," said Opal. "It's outsiders like that what caused Daddy X to awaken. Feed 'em to the Alligator Man is what I say. Then he'll go away."

"Opal, you talkin' crazy again," Boulder said. "What makes you think the Alligator Man would be satisfied with something like that?"

"Well, what the hell does he want then?"

"Probably your body, woman."

Opal glared at both of them. "You making jokes like this was funny but it ain't. It ain't funny at all. I ain't gon' sit still and let this white witch doctor run my life, no sir. I'll fight him myself if I have to."

"What you think you can do that Dr. Spider ain't already tried? Tell me that."

"We cain't just sit here and do nothing. And I ain't the only one who feels that way either. There's talk in the woods now."

"That's all it ever is...talk."

"Okay, Mr. Smart-pants, you think of something. What's that big fat white Sheriff gon' do 'bout protecting us poor folks? Some of us voted for him too, you know. What's he gon' do, Willis?"

Willis Haynes rubbed the stubble of his gray beard. "I don' know, for sure. I ain't talked to Verne in some time. He don' spend much time at his office anymore. I guess he be going back to the dragnet, like he did before. That's all the buckra law understands."

Boulder looked off at the sun coming out from behind a cloud. Out to the east, the clouds were gray and flat, stork clouds blowing up from the southeast. "He won't never catch the ol' Alligator Man, I'm sure of that."

Reluctantly, they all murmured their agreement.

2.

When Bart Millen found his son Dean missing that same morning, and evidence that Kim had returned during the night and probably taken him with her, he knew that Sarah would be at the end of her patience and he wasn't so sure that he himself could put up with this war of nerves much longer. He had found a few more statuettes and hexing dolls spaced around the house, apparently left by Kim and perhaps by others as well—ghastly-looking things: a necklace of dried worms draped around the door knob to their bedroom, blood smeared on the mirror in the girls' bathroom, in the pattern of a yawning gator's mouth, another Little Captain, this one with its legs broken off and lying nearby. It was all very childish, a set of sick pranks and nothing more. That was what the rational part of his mind assured him, in the strong light of day. But seeing the effects that all the pranks had had on his wife made him wonder nonetheless and in each of those brief moments of doubt, just as Verne Tatum had warned him it would, the power of the root doctor's magic would grow a little more, bury itself a little deeper, until there one day came the thought that maybe, just maybe, there was something to this after all. You could fight the thought and deny it and drown it out with logic and argument and theories of psychology but it was like crabgrass in your lawn—the seeds were always there, just waiting to sprout.

The first order of business was to deal with Sarah.

They sat together at the breakfast table, Sarah's eyes red from crying, her hands trembling around the handle of the coffee cup, her face bleak and worn and fatigued. She looked a hundred years old. Her voice cracked.

"Bart, we have to get out of here. We have to move again, once we get the kids back."

He reached for her and found her hand but she drew it back and kept it to herself. The wall was going up, brick by brick, and he felt powerless to stop it. He knew the pattern all too well.

"We're not giving in. Not this time. We've been on the run for fifteen years and I'm tired of it. This is where we stay and fight."

"You're out of your mind, honey." Her voice was curiously detached and distant, almost mechanical. "We can't fight it. It's hopeless. Just give me back my children—that's all I want."

"I've called Tatum. He's expecting us in an hour."

A deep heavy sigh escaped her lips. "He can't do anything."

"Oh. You're sure of that, are you? Sarah, can't you see what's happening to you? Can't you see that you're doing the very thing this madman wants. He's got us right where he wants us now—on the verge of panic, desperate, willing to do anything. If he came through the window right now and told you to eat that cup, you'd do it. But we can't live like that. And we can't keep running."

Her expression hardly changed. She was wasted and drained. "Dr. Spider said we had a death hex on us."

"Sarah!" Bart reached for her hand and took it firmly. She offered no resistance this time. "Sarah, stop it. Stop talking like that. Jesus, you sound like Lucius now. Get a hold of yourself."

"I don't know what to do, Bart. I don't know what to think."

"Come on." He pulled her to her feet. "We're getting dressed and going to see Verne. The one thing we're not going to do is sit around here and moan."

Bart pulled the car over to the side of the street two blocks from the County Annex Building. He didn't like the looks of the crowd that was gathering in the intersection of Scott and North Streets. It was an angry, surging mob that milled in front of the stone and glass building; the few policemen there seemed anxious to stay out if its way as much as they could. Up on the steps, a man was speaking through a bullhorn. It looked like the Mayor.

Just then, a stray band of onlookers spotted the Millens' car. Bart had gotten out to see if he could catch the Mayor's words, but he decided not to stay when he saw the group of men running toward them. One of them brandished a length of pipe; the others shouted and waved for the rest of the crowd to follow.

"There they are!" someone shouted. Knots of people materialized at every intersection, scowling and pointing. Some of the crowd around the County Annex began to drift over, to see what the commotion was about. The four men were almost upon them.

Bart quickly slipped back into the car and put them in reverse, backing crazily down North Street, scattering pedestrians for several blocks. He spun them around in a screeching U-turn and sped off down the street. Sarah turned around in the seat to watch.

"What's the matter with those people? What do they want?"

"Us, it looks like," Bart said. He glanced up in the rear view mirror. "They're blaming us for all these killings."

Sarah clung to the armrest as they took a turn too fast. "You don't have to kill us."

"I can't help it. We're being followed."

Sarah looked back again. Sure enough, a pick-up truck full of men was closing in from behind. Sarah watched in horror as the truck came right up and nudged their rear bumper. The impact nearly forced Bart into a telephone pole. He tapped the brakes and made a hasty turn onto Newcastle Street, heading south for the river.

"Bart, do something. I don't like this at all." She clung to the armrest tightly, staring out the front windshield, afraid to look around again.

"I'm trying...." his teeth were clenched in a grimace, as he tried to watch the road and the rear view mirror at the same time. "...the streets are too damn narrow—" He swung the wheel again and they spun sideways, turning back onto Bay Street. Bart gunned the engine and they shot ahead. "I'm gonna try and make the bridge."

"They're still there!" Sarah cried. She closed her eyes as Bart swerved abruptly to avoid hitting a small throng of people that had surged down toward the river. The car bounced up onto a sidewalk, narrowly missing a horse-drawn coach full of wide-eyed tourists, then clunked back down to the street, where they ran a red light. Behind them, the pick-up truck came roaring up, horn blaring and lights flashing, weaving back and forth across the cobblestones.

Bart slammed on the brakes when the Byron T. Presser Memorial Bridge came into view around the bend. The pick-up bumped them from behind, nearly knocking them sideways before slamming on the brakes as well. The truck skidded out of control, clipping a bridge abutment with its front fender. As Bart turned them up and onto the bridge, he saw the fireball out of the corner of his eye.

The truck had cartwheeled in the air for a few hundred feet before slamming broadsides into a concrete retaining wall that protected the marina from road traffic. The heat and concussion of the explosion slapped the car like a fist.

"My God." Sarah slumped back in the seat, unable to look at the inferno now raging out of control along the side of Bay Street. A wall of flame had set ablaze the pines and palmettoes the city had recently planted along the quays, so that the ornate mansions along the waterfront were embedded in billowing black smoke. From somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. "It's horrible."

Bart had slowed down so they could examine the crash from the apex of the bridge. Another car honked its horn, coming from the other direction. Bart had to swerve back into his own lane.

"Those people are insane," he muttered. He turned back to his driving. "I guess the crazies have gotten into all of us."

"That's why we have to move," Sarah said. "You said it yourself—nobody trusts us anymore. They're blaming us for everything bad that's happening."

"Let's talk about it later, okay?" He pulled up to the stop sign on the other side of the bridge.

"What do we do now?"

Bart drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "It's a sure bet the Sheriff'll be busy with that crash for a while. There's only one thing we can do: go see Little Spider. If he knows where this Daddy X is hiding out, I'll get it out of him. It's high time I confronted this white witch doctor."

They drove straight to Little Spider's place in the Presser Homes complex. They found him in his bathroom, squatting by the toilet, vomiting. His face was pale and drenched with sweat.

Sarah stooped down beside him. "What's the matter? Are you okay?" She wet a washrag and bathed his face with cool water. He retched some more, then sank back against the stool, half out of breath. His eyes were streaked red.

"I'm...okay...." He mopped his forehead with the wet rag gratefully, then began cleaning up his face and neck. He slipped out of his T-shirt, now soaked with drying puke, and tossed it in the shower. "...drink...just something to...drink...."

Bart went to the tiny kitchen and returned with some water. "Try this." He held the glass while Little Spider sipped carefully. In a minute, he took the glass himself and gulped the rest. "More." Bart refilled it.

They helped him into the den of his tiny apartment and laid him on the sofa. He smiled weakly, licking at the ends of his moustache. "I drank too much last night." He fixed his eyes on the ceiling and then slowly closed them. He took a big breath and tried to relax. Old tear tracks on his cheeks, recently made, caught the light.

"We heard about Dr. Spider," Bart said. "This morning, on the radio."

Little Spider said nothing.

"I'm so sorry," Sarah said. She rubbed her hands together, feeling helpless.

"Yeah, well, it was bound to happen. An old man like that, playing around in the woods, going 'booga-booga' to everything that moved. He went the way he wanted to."

"We didn't come just for consolation," Bart said.

Little Spider's eye popped open. It regarded Bart coolly as he went on.

"Our youngest child, Dean, wasn't in his bed this morning. He wasn't at home at all. And there were voodoo things scattered all over the house." He watched as Little Spider struggled to sit up. He held his head with his hands until he had finally made it upright. "Things like this." Bart pulled out the Little Captain with the broken legs. "Sometime during the night, Kim came back and took Dean with her."

Little Spider grunted and took the hexing doll in his hand, turning it end for end. He set it down on the plywood coffee table, carefully putting it face down. "So what do you want from me?"

Bart found himself a seat next to the sofa. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, studying his hands as if they were some kind of map. "I don't know if I will ever see my children again, Little Spider. I don't know if I or my family will ever be able to live peacefully in Bayville. I don't even know if I want to anymore. I don't know whether I believe this root crap or not. But there is one thing I do know: whatever happens, I will find and kill Daddy X with my own hands for what he has done to my family." He looked up. "I want you to help me."

For a long time, nothing was said. Only breathing and the whir of a distant fan in another room kept the silence bearable. Little Spider staggered to his feet and disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, returning with two beers. He gave one to Bart.

He slurped a long pull, eyeing Bart over the rim of the can.

"It ain't gon' be as easy as all that, you know."

"What choice do I have?" Bart asked. "I can see now that this confrontation was meant to be. Whoever this Daddy X is, and I'm sure it's someone from the Tulsa, he's planned this whole thing from the beginning. Sarah and the kids and I have been following his script, from the day we first moved to Bayville. Now we've come to the climax. There's nowhere else to go."

"I thought you didn't believe in this 'root crap'?"

"What has your root given us—nothing but trouble. But Daddy X has arranged everything so that we have no choice but to fight him on his own terms."

"That's like putting up a fence to stop a hurricane."

"Will you help us?"

Little Spider swirled the beer in the can for a moment, then finished it off. He slouched down in the sofa and balanced the empty can on his big belly, watching it rise and fall rhythmically.

"Papa died 'cause he knew Daddy X's real identity. You know, he told me that the other day. He said only one of them would come out of the final battle alive. And he was right." He let the can fall clattering to the floor and made no move to pick it up. "I ain't got the power Papa had. For me to go against Daddy X would be the worst kind of foolishness."

"What about all the children he has attracted to him?" Sarah asked. "My children and the others. You saw what he's done to Kim. He'll do that to every child he can find if we don't stop him. It's already destroying the town. What'll Bayville be like a year from now: a ghost town? Full of derelicts and freaks and monsters? That'll do wonders for the tourist trade."

"I don't know—"

"You're the only one who can help us," Bart said. "You're the last remaining link with the only power that could oppose Daddy X. He has to respect you."

Little Spider snorted but considered it all the same. You cain't deny what you be, what you been all along. Papa Heyward be watching you now. You didn't come back from running away just to work in a cafeteria.

"I had too much to drink. I cain't think straight at all."

"Then you'll do it? You'll help us?"

He found himself nodding without intending to. What could he offer these people that they couldn't do for themselves? He glanced up, studying the faces studying him. Papa had once said you knew you had a lifelong customer when you could smell the sweat of fear and see the work of the plat-eye shaping the face of the non-believer. He could see that now, going to work on Bart and Sarah Millen, sculpting something he had never seen before in the faces of these skeptical buckra, something he thought he would never see. They believed in him, they were looking to him to turn the trick and save the day. It was the withered look of futility and desperation he saw in those faces now, the kind of look any root doctor thrived on, for that was what all his training had taught him to heal, that was why there were root doctors in the first place—to console the inconsolable, to salvage hope for the hopeless, to pluck out the stings and barbs of life that no white man's medicine could work against. You got the power, Willie Amos, if only you could find it in yourself to believe that.

"Maybe there is a way to do the good Daddy in, after all."

Bart and Sarah both sat back with a look of triumph. "I'm glad to hear you say that," Bart said. "What have you got in mind?"

Little Spider sat up straight. His head was clear for the first time in hours. "Just a plan. It's not exactly root but it may work. It may just lead us to Daddy X and the children before Sheriff Tatum gets there with all his guns blazing. Are you with me on this? It may be dangerous."

"Yes," Sarah said, "yes, for God's sake. We can't stand this waiting any longer. We've got to do something."

"All right, that's all I wanted to hear." He leaned forward, scratching the outlines of his plan in the plywood of the coffee table. "This is what I had in mind."

3.

Verne Tatum waited impatiently in Colonel Dunn's office while they brought the Lattimore boy in from the Correctional Barracks. He was nervous and restless and checked his watch constantly, noting with persistent accuracy that the second hand lagged behind the clock on Dunn's desk by precisely twenty-five seconds. He had been acutely conscious of the passage of time ever since he had agreed to call off the search for Kim Millen and the other children for Little Spider.

I ought to have my head examined, he told himself. On the other hand, maybe it's better I don't. God knows what they might find. One thing was for sure though: he had no intention of waiting the full forty-eight hours before starting up the dragnet again.

Jimmy Lattimore had once claimed to know exactly where the Alligator Man's hideaway was located. It was high time to test that assertion.

A few minutes later, Guy Dunn opened the door and motioned for Jimmy to go in. He was pale and unshaven and blinked a good bit in the strong fluorescent light.

"Sit down there, son," Dunn commanded. Lattimore took a seat beside Tatum, across the desk from where Dunn settled himself. He leaned forward over his blotter, hands folded into a church steeple. "You realize, Verne, that what I'm doing is strictly against regs."

Tatum sized up the Marine for a moment. He was an earnest, clean cut steel rod of a man, all military even down to the regimented breathing he allowed himself. Tatum debated the best way to approach the situation. Obviously, he respected authority—

"I am afraid, Colonel Dunn, that the law is clear on matters like these. "Course, you're federal and I'm just a county sheriff. But we're after the same things, I believe. I imagine your superiors would be willing to look kindly on any assistance you could provide in the matter of these terrible incidents. Good relations with the local yokels and that sort of thing."

Dunn scowled across the desk at him for a moment, then broke into a grin. "Vernon Tatum, you are the biggest windbag full of crap I ever saw. You know damn well I want this voodoo stunt man brought to justice as much as you do. More, I would think. After what he did to Denise...." He trailed off, looking down, swallowing the emotion that welled up in his throat. Be like steel, he told himself. He swallowed again. "The kid's yours, for as long as you need him. He's in your custody."

Verne was sympathetic. "Thanks, Guy."

"Just one question though. You think you can really find this Alligator Man?"

Tatum shrugged, glancing over at Lattimore. The boy was staring down at the linoleum cracks. "If Jimmy's telling me the truth, I can." Lattimore looked up, narrowing his eyes.

"I been there before, Sheriff. I can find it again." His eyes darted to catch Dunn's reaction. Guy ignored him.

"What're you going to do if you do find him?"

Tatum's lips tightened perceptibly. "That's the mess every officer of the law in this country has to face—the difference between what he wants to do and what he's allowed to do." He grimaced at the thought. "I have to obey the same laws as everybody else. 'Course, I have to say such things as that too, for the record, you understand. Unofficially—" he shrugged again. "who knows what might happen? We're dealing with a dangerous man here."

Dunn leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes wearily. "I understand. Well, my job's done. I'll complete the paperwork to make it look official. But do one thing for me, will you?"

"What's that?"

"Keep me posted."

The two men measured each other for a few seconds. Finally, Tatum got up and, with him, Jimmy Lattimore.

"I'll do that, Guy. You know I will."

"I have a few things to settle with that jerk myself."
Chapter 23

1.

Dusk comes late to Bay County in the middle of the summer. Bart Millen glanced at his watch as he made the turn onto Gallivant Road. It was nearly none o'clock and there was still light in the sky. Orange light, crimson light, streaks of purple and blood and amber. He gripped the steering wheel a little harder. Don't think, he told himself. Just do it.

It was going to be one of the hardest things he had ever done.

He looked up in the rear view mirror. There were lights trailing behind, another car. The car was hanging back a good quarter-mile, its headlights shimmering in the heat coming off the asphalt, winking on and off through the low-hanging moss. He checked his speedometer: maintain a steady forty-five on the highway, at least until you cross the bridge over Dooley Inlet. Then slow down to whatever you think is safe. You'll see the gully, just past the road that goes up to the P & W sawmill.

Those were Little Spider's instructions. Bart wet his lips and looked in the mirror again. His throat was dry as dust. He hoped to God this thing would work.

They had to slow down to negotiate the traffic light in the town of Dooley itself. As usual, the one and only cop lay dozing in his squad car that was always parked beside the BESS' FRIED CHICKEN sign. Bart had never seen the old guy awake in all the trips he had made through the town. He had no intention of doing anything to awaken him now.

Once past the city limits sign, he got the Chevy back up to speed, looking back to make sure he was still being followed. The road bent right and he drove for two minutes. Then, it swung back more sharply around to the left, skirting the edge of a woodsy bog. The P & W marquee flashed by—the first checkpoint. Immediately, he tapped the brakes, getting down to about thirty five miles an hour. He stiffened himself—it was like the first time he'd dived off a cliff into the lake as a child, the exact same feeling of fear and anticipation and irreversibility—and he slowed down some more. Thirty four, thirty three, down to an even thirty. The gully was coming, a deep culvert that paralleled the highway for several miles. They weren't far from the old Casey bridge, where Caleb Merris had gone spinning off into the water one rain-slick night. He wondered if Merris had seen the sights he was seeing, maybe even thought the same thoughts. But that was ridiculous. Tatum had said Merris had been drunk and nearly unconscious, scarcely able to control his car. I'm wide awake and alert and fully conscious of what I'm doing. He snorted, thinking that. Probably be better if I wasn't.

He checked the mirror again. Then his seat belt. It was good and snug.

Anytime you're ready, son.

He took a deep breath, tapping the brakes again. Then, he deliberately swerved the car toward the gully.

The front end leaped across the highway and jumped the ditch, plowing into the opposite bank with a grinding screech of tearing metal. The car tipped over on its side and sank into the soft mud, before sliding down into the gully and skidding along for a hundred yards or more, spraying dirt and water in a high arcing plume overhead. It came to rest, its momentum spent, upside down, wheels spinning, engine still running and leaking fuel into the tawny brown water. The radiator hissed a furious vent of steam.

Inside the car, the impact had knocked Bart Millen unconscious.

The car that had been following him slowed down and pulled off to the side of the road, still a quarter mile behind. Its headlamps went out and it sat quietly for a few moments, its occupants making no move to get out and help. Five minutes passed, then ten. The shrill whistling of the radiator finally died out and the persistent drone of crickets soon took over the night again. All was still.

Then the car doors opened. Two people got out. A squat black man and a slender white woman. They paused beside their car, peering up ahead, squinting to see any signs of life. Satisfied, they slipped off into the woods, the woman hanging back, reluctant to go, lingering for a last look, until the black man took her arm and steered her away from the roadside. They vanished in seconds.

An hour passed and the dark of the night deepened. The ground gave up its day's accumulation of heat in thin clouds of steaming mist, which rolled up the river channel and filtered through the woods, blanketing everything in an ashen cloak of gray white. Inside the twisted heap of the Chevrolet, the fumes of escaping gasoline had grown stronger. A thin line of blood trickled from Bart Millen's mouth and his nose involuntarily wrinkled at the acrid smell. His eyes fluttered open and he struggled against the seat belt, anxious to get out before he choked or burned to death.

It was then that he saw eyes staring down at him through the splintered windshield. Dozens of eyes, drifting in and out of view in the coils of fog. He quit the struggle and lay back quietly, closing his eyes. Waiting. He narrowed his eyes to a lit and watched with mounting appreciation as the children of Daddy X prowled around the car, searching for a way in. Be still, be calm, he could still hear Little Spider saying. Don't do anything to frighten them off. He smiled inside at the thought. Like hell.

They had drifted out of the woods, one by one, concealed in the mist, scuttling like black beetles along the ground, swarming into the culvert until the wreckage of the car was crawling with them and he could feel the car shifting under their weight. They rocked it back and forth, scraping along the roof and windows, tearing at loose sheets of crumpled metal, scratching and clawing with each other to break inside. Bart caught a glimpse of a shadow over his head and shifted slightly to see what it was.

One of the child-beasts swung a heavy rock against the side window and splinters of glass shot across the seat. Bart knew he had been cut—he could taste the warm trickle of blood dribbling onto his lips. The rock struck again and the glass cracked and buckled. The third impact knocked it out and the shards fell onto the seat and floorboard, covering him with a thousand sharp slivers.

Immediately, he smelled the odor of decaying flesh.

He lay perfectly still, unable to see everything that was happening behind him, but hearing it all the same. The sound of the door creaking as it was swung open, the car settling as more weight was put on the doorsill, the ragged, hissing breath—they were close, he could feel it, they were practically on top of him and it was all he could do to keep from springing right up and getting out of there. It was a foul, fetid, obscene thing that brushed against his hair, dripping creek water and pus and God knew what else into his face—there was a scream in the back of his throat—he could scarcely contain it any longer. The muscles of his legs were tensed, ready to go, ready to carry him away from there in an instant, poised for his mind's command. But it never came.

The child-gator hovering over him had slit open a tiny leather pouch. It held the pouch out, just over Bart Millen's face and let the rancid liquid inside run down onto his lips. The effect was instantaneous.

He gagged and coughed and started to sit up but he couldn't. In seconds, his arms and legs were paralyzed and useless, lying limp and unmovable—they might as well have been connected to another body. He sank back into the seat, opening his eyes, feeling the stain of the poison flooding through his body, convulsing with the pain like a horde of needles twisting in his gut, pricking at his brain, twisting and gouging and tearing him inside out. He coughed again, choking, CAN'T BREATHE!, wheezing gulping for air, his face bulging turning blue and it was useless it was hopeless he was beaten by a goddamned kind for Chrissakes beaten the life was dribbling away his whole face was numb it felt like a mask of putty sitting on top of his skull and through it all through the red haze curtain that slowly inexorably materialized into view he caught a glimpse of that wicked face that ghastly swollen hideous black face leering and grinning down at him snorting like a goddamned cow in heat and in the dying seconds of consciousness he knew without a doubt—you could just tell—that it was Kim, the child they had brought into the world and raised to a fine, strong young woman, his very own daughter Kim now presiding over his last, spasmodic death throes like a succubus right out of the heart of Hell itself.

In less than a minute, Bart Millen lay deathly still in the front seat of his wrecked Chevrolet.

There was a snapping, rustling sound in the bush alongside the road and the other children looked up, then scurried off down the culvert. Two remained behind, one inside the car, one hovering just outside, watching Bart Millen, just to make sure.

Daddy said to make sure.

Something thrashed in the woods, something heavy. The children who stayed behind looked up hopefully, scanning the line of dark green foliage. He would be here in a minute, they knew it, they could feel it.

Daddy's coming after all.

But it wasn't Daddy.

Little Spider burst out of the woods and ran toward the car. In each hand, he carried a trickster doll, the likeness of the scowling face of Legba, grinning out at them. He came running, shouting, waving the dolls in the air and the children froze, unable to move. Little Spider leaped the culvert and landed splashing in the water. He pushed the children aside and dragged Bart Millen out of the car, hauling him up the steep bank and onto flatter, drier ground, stretching him out. Then, he forced the terrified children into the car and heaved the bent door shut until he was sure it couldn't be prized open again. He went back to Bart and kneeled at his side.

"Is he...is he..." It was Sarah, still in the woods. She appeared from around the trunk of a tree. Her face was white. "Is he dead?"

Little Spider shook his head. "Not yet," he muttered. He fiddled with a leather pouch he wore attached to his belt. Inside were antidotes to many tricks and poisons. The only question was which one. He didn't know if there would be time....

Sarah soon came down and squatted next to him. She brushed back Bart's hair.

"He's feverish. Can't you do something?"

Little Spider gritted his teeth and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "I'm trying, I'm trying." One after another, he wet Bart's lips with ointments and liquids, dusted his face with powders, disemboweled a freshly killed squirrel and let the entrails pour over his face, none of it had any effect. It had been many minutes since his chest had risen. Little Spider was growing desperate.

"I'm just now sure—I don't know...." He sweated so much his eyes stung and Sarah began to sob softly. She held Bart's hand in her own.

"He's going to die."

Little Spider shook his head angrily. "He isn't! HE ISN'T!" he cried out. He looked up. From the cracked windows of the car, the children stared back at him listlessly. "HE ISN'T GOING TO DIE!" Shocked at his own outburst, he stood up. Where's my power now, Papa? Tell me where it is.

Then, he had it. A long shot, crazy, not part of the practice, but he knew it had to be tried. He had no other choice.

Life gives life, that was the key. How any times had Papa drilled that into him those long, hot, boring root lessons in the afternoon when he would rather have been outside with his brothers? Like unto like.

But he didn't have much time. Every second, the herd of human monsters Daddy X had sent to dispatch Bart Millen was getting farther away. They'd have to hurry—it would have to work the first time—if they were going to find them in the dark woods and trail them to the heart of the heart, the center of the black power, the infernal pit of the lair of the Alligator Man himself. That was what they had planned to do.

He got up from his crouch, leaving Sarah with her husband, and skulked for a few minutes along the crest of the culvert, staring hard into the bush, sniffing like a bloodhound, feeling for the pulse of a tiny heart beating quickly, sniffing out the presence of a pair of tiny brown gophers lurking in a sinkhole just the other side of a tree. In a flash, he lunged into the dirt and came up with one, squealing and struggling in his grasp. As Sarah watched in horror, he rolled over and sat back up, holding the creature by his string-like tail. He took a deep breath, snapped the animal's neck in two so that it died and fell silent instantly, and then, with its heart still quivering and warm with the pulsations of blood, he stuffed it tail and all into his mouth and began to chew, slowly, kneading the furry meat around with his tongue.

Sarah couldn't look. She turned away and felt a hot stream of vomit rising in the back of her throat.

In a few minutes, Little Spider came back over. He squatted down unsteadily, swallowing audibly, tasting the stale, musky flesh he had just consumed. He felt bloated, slightly sick, as he felt the carcass easing its way down into his stomach.

"Life gives life," he muttered out loud. He took out an ornamental knife from the leather pouch and touched it to the skin of his forearm. "My living blood for his."

He slit open a vein and let the blood drip steadily onto Bart's lips. He soon felt woozy and dizzy and asked for Sarah to help support him. She did so, reluctantly, watching her husband's face at the same time.

In seconds, the color had returned to Bart's cheeks. No longer a waxy gray, it was almost as if she could see the blood pumping throughout his body. Seconds later, a long, ragged gasp escaped his lips. His chest rose and fell rhythmically a few times and Sarah held her breath, daring to hope. He had been dead. She was sure of it. And now-

She felt her heart leap when his eyes eased open. He squinted, staring blankly up at them for a while, coughing at the steady stream of blood still trickling from Little Spider's arm. He shuddered and tried to sit up. Sarah pushed him gently back down.

"Just lie still a minute, honey."

Little Spider stanched the flow of blood from his arm and applied a primitive tourniquet and bandage.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

Bart groaned and smiled weakly. "Like I was in an accident. How did I do?"

Sarah was grinning, tears streaming down her cheeks. She held his hand tightly. "You did fine, honey, just like we planned it."

"We're not through yet," Little Spider told them. He gathered up the bottles and dolls and tokens he had taken out of his pouch. "By now, those children are a mile away. It won't be easy finding them at night, not in these woods. You think you can travel?"

Sarah was concerned. "He needs rest."

But Bart answered by struggling to sit up. His head felt weightless, his arms like concrete. "I'll be okay," he grunted. "Help me up."

They got him cautiously to his feet. It was clear that he would have to lean on them for support for quite a while.

"Guess you'll have to drag me a ways, until my legs get some feeling in them." He licked his lips. "What on earth did you give me?"

Little Spider made sure his arms were securely wrapped around his neck. Sarah was on the other side.

"Just a little secret concoction I know."

Bart spat out a mouthful of saliva. "Tastes awful. I don't think we should keep that recipe."

Sarah's stomach turned at the thought. "You're alive. That's what counts."

"You ready?" Little Spider asked.

Bart noticed the gator faces staring at him from behind the car window. That's what we're chasing. He felt a cold knot in the pit of his stomach and wondered if they would ever get Kim and Dean back. He looked at Sarah. She was thinking the same thing.

"I'm ready. Let's go."

The three of them limped across Gallivant Road, managed the culvert on the other side and then plunged into the woods, a good twenty minutes behind the other children.
Chapter 24

1.

They pressed on through the woods for the better part of half an hour before Little Spider was sure he had regained the trail. They stopped by the side of a fallen tree limb, now rotted out and black with age, and Little Spider pointed to the claw marks, recently made, on top of the limb.

"They came this way. The bark is freshly gouged." He stood silently for a moment, hands on his hips, breathing hard. He had stripped off his T-shirt not long after they had started out. In time, Bart had followed suit. "The river is that direction." He pointed ahead. "They would probably have gone toward the water. And there are swamps and bogs on either side as well."

"I'm not sure what we're dealing with anymore," Bart said. He sat on the log and rubbed his legs vigorously. The numbness was just beginning to wear off.

Sarah stared straight ahead. "Kim's out there. So is Dean."

"Honey, we have to face the probability that they're lost to us."

"They're out there. They need us."

Little Spider cleared his throat. "We'd better get moving again. Can you make it?"

Bart grimaced as he stood up but he found he needed no help now. "Let's go."

It was a wild, marshy bottomland they were hacking their way through, flat, tangled with heavy vine and the gristly roots of cypress and palmetto. Mosquitos and gnats swarmed in suffocating profusion and the heat lay upon them like a musty old quilt in a hot summertime attic. They found the ground spongy and treacherous, often sinking up to their shins in the muck that passed for soil. Sarah twisted her ankle and had to be helped the rest of the way, hobbling and groaning with each step they took. It was a cloudy, moonless, windless and feverish night and there were moments, mercifully brief, when Sarah thought for sure they were getting nowhere, that they were standing still while the trees glided silently past in panorama. She shook her head and the pain in her ankle came back. It hurt but she was grateful. The pain kept her awake and alert.

They could smell water now, whether river of creek or swamp, they didn't know, but the scummy, stagnant, resinous odor wafted through the branches until he was cloying and thick. Other smells were mixed in, smells they couldn't always identify: moth balls, perhaps stale cloth, something burning, something gagging sweet. Each tree was a milestone in a seemingly endless march to nowhere and Sarah soon fell to counting them, racking up a score like a child playing jacks. She became aware of a crawling tickle on the nape of her neck and the sense of being watched, being stalked; often, she would simply shut her eyes and hobble blindly along, clinging to the shoulders of the two men. In those moments, she could almost, but not quite, imagine she was dreaming everything.

After an hour's pursuit, they saw that the ground had begun a gentle downward slope and the foliage grew so dense it was virtually impenetrable. They had to crouch and slash and hack their way through and the thought came to Little Spider that the children surely would not have come this way. But every trace of their passage indicated otherwise; the broken limbs and crushed leaves and freshly turned dirt and footprints—ugly brown three-toed things that stood out like welts in the dirt in the beam of his flashlight—all of it said they had indeed come this way, and not so long ago.

Ahead, through the trees, they heard something splash.

Little Spider plunged on, waving for the Millens to get down, get to their hands and knees and be quiet. He crawled like a baby the last few yards and poked his head through a thick bramble of turtle grass. He motioned for the Millens to come ahead and look.

Little Spider pulled the huge spade-shaped leaves apart and let them see.

They had followed the children to a dismal, swampy marsh, a bowl-shaped dell knee-deep with briny black water from a creek that flowed in from somewhere beyond the far line of stooped old oaks and cypress trees. A low earthen dam at one end of the marsh had backed up the creek water to create the swamp and across the surface, the flickering glow of candles hung in trees shimmering like broken crystal. Stout limbs draped in moss and wild jasmine arched out over the water, trailing their webs like ancient curtains and a faint steamy mist clung low to the water throughout the length of the clearing.

Bart and Sarah could only stare with mute horror at the scene before them.

The place was alive with alligators. Alligators and other reptilian things and children and creatures that seemed to be halfway between them. Sarah stifled a gasp and choked back tears.

"It's insane," Bart whispered. He crawled on his belly a few feet more and lay next to Little Spider, peering through the turtle grass. "It's totally mad."

They watched a small group of the child-beasts wade out into the water. Bart swallowed hard. In the center of the group was the thing that had once been his daughter. He started to get up but Little Spider put a firm hand on his arm.

"Stay down," he hissed. "Stay out of sight." Bart glared back at him, still poised to go, but then realized that he was right. They were outsiders here; they had to be cautious and pick the right moment.

They watched as Kim and her friends waded further out into the water, right up to their waists. It was much deeper than it looked. It was amazing how the real gators, or at least what he thought were real gators, for he could no longer be sure of anything if this weltering delirium, stood clear and left them unharmed, gliding in half circles on the outside of a perimeter around the group that they seemed unable to penetrate. Bart held his breath and felt Sarah slide up beside him. It was all they could do to keep quiet.

It was a ritual of some kind they were witnessing; that now became clear. A rite of passage, an initiation. The steam coming off the water had grown thicker and it was difficult for them to see. Kim now stood alone in the water—the rest of the group had retreated back to the banks. She stood perfectly still, barely noticing the black glistening humps gliding back and forth all around her. It was hard to tell for sure but it seemed as though the gators were circling closer with every pass. Bart tensed and got to his knees. Didn't she see? Can't she see what's happening? They've got her drugged-- He was sure of it now; there was no longer any doubt. The gators were closing in, pressing closer, drawing the knot tighter. He gritted his teeth, felt Little Spider's hand on his arm again, held his breath....

Kim fainted, dead in the water, and swiftly submerged from view. At that moment, there was a furious splashing as the gators plunged toward the bottom. He couldn't stand it any longer—he had to do something....

Bart Millen leaped from the bushes and dived into the water. It was cold and bitter and oily. He came up flailing, fighting forward through a thick clump of algae, swimming toward where his daughter had gone down. He heard a voice, Little Spider, far off in the distance, like it was filtering down a long tunnel.

"Get out of there, man! Look out!"

But it was far too late for that.

He could sense the weight of the gators in the water all around him a palpable density squeezing his eardrums, his whole head. Opening his eyes to a lit, he could see shapes flitting past, roiling the water to a dirty froth; he could feel waves beating against his face. Kim was down there, somewhere. He wasn't turning back now. I'm not leaving any of my crew behind this time. He heard noises: scratching, grating, the hungry bleat of ravenous reptiles sliding off into the creek, each grunt and snort magnified by the water until it was an unending clamor of drumming, a deep, mournful plinking, the tapping of metal upon metal and he knew, oh God, no, he knew without a doubt what that was, he had prayed for fifteen years that time and age would cut out that horrible memory—the sound of men dying, the fading signal of desperate men, trapped in a sinking submarine, tapping out their last thoughts, echoing back to the diving bell, the last, faint, hollow plink, plink-plink, plink-plink-plink that would haunt every space in his mind for each and every waking minute and most of the sleeping ones for months and years afterward. It was back, here in this fetid swamp, rushing in like a tidal wave, filling his ears and with it the pain and the nausea and the fire behind his eyes and knew now that he would never be rid of it so long as he lived.

And then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. The water was quiet and still and he bobbed on the surface for a few seconds, just getting his breath back. His throat was dry when he saw the armored humps of the gators lolling silently just a few yards away. They weren't going away but at least they weren't getting any closer either.

Where the hell had Kim gone?

He took a deep breath and ducked underwater to look and that was when he came face to face with the source of everything, the root of the evil, the Alligator Man himself, Daddy X and his glowing fire-red eyes, the biggest goddamned alligator he had ever seen in his life.

He was still a bit woozy from the effects of the poison the children had slipped him. The Alligator Man came at him like a mad bull, charging out of the murky water and butting him in the stomach so hard he thought he might have broken every rib. The impact knocked the breath out of him and Bart clawed his way back to the surface for a fresh gulp.

He felt the slick hide of the thing scraping at his legs and he ducked back under and swung viciously, as hard as he could, catching Daddy X on the side of his long snout. For a brief instant, they floated there, five feet underwater, sizing each other up. Bart shook his head—he knew he must be dizzy from the effects of the poison—he was seeing things now. It wasn't possible, but there it was: the Alligator Man changing back and forth from a gator to a man, right before his eyes. It was the light, it was the sediment, it wasn't happening, but it was. The man-beast lashed out again and struck Bart flush in the face.

They fought on, tumbling and grappling, with Bart struggling to reach the surface for air. He was dimly aware of the ring of gators encircling them, gliding back and forth just beyond visibility, awaiting the outcome of the battle. Daddy X was huge and tough—his hide was a bony plate that was hard to hold on to, hard to get leverage against—it was like trying to wrestle a bull. Time and again, he would grab hold of something only to be shaken off and knocked spinning; by sheer weight alone, he was no match for the creature. He managed to stay clear of the jaws, snapping and slashing, whenever he moved in too close, but the tail was another matter and several times, he was stunned nearly to unconsciousness by unexpected blows. He had powerful arms, too, much longer and more dexterous that any gator he had ever seen before. He tried to stay just out of range of that crushing grip, but close enough to poke and jab and kick, for what little good it did.

It was a stately, dream-like contest in many ways, so much like the feverish visions he had suffered all these years in remembering those last desperate moments aboard the Tulsa. Time congealed in moments like that—it was stuck solid and the contents of his decision—the thing that had lived inside of him for so long and grown swollen and malignant until it threatened to engulf everything—were laid out like an open book for all the world to see. The Board of Inquiry had picked over each second of those minutes, dissected them like something in Biology class, until nothing was left but the results.

They couldn't have known—they weren't there. It was a split second thing. I had no time. There was no goddamned time to think.

He saw the fists, the bloody fists he always saw, just like in the dream.

He was back on the Tulsa, back in the control room, picking who would make the trip next time the diving bell came down. It was hot, sweaty, crowded, the stink of fear and panic thick in the room. Stay back from the hatch—we need space here. Get Melzer and the other injured up here first.

There was no goddamned time to think. She shifted, she started sliding off. THERE WASN'T ANYTHING I COULD DO.

It was Ridley. That's who it was. Ridley pushed me into the bell. That face behind the glass, when we closed the hatch—I fought him, I didn't want to go better get in, sir, the men need someone in charge. "Ridley, you cocksucker...."

He was tangled, drowning, there was more water coming in. The damn hatch isn't seated. He was tangled in a hose of some kind. "With all due respects, sir, it was my intention to leave the bell and climb back aboard the Tulsa, to be with my men." And you're saying here, that the diving bell had to pull away or risk going down with the Tulsa?

"Yes, sir."

There was no goddamned time. I had to decide.

The bloody fists kept getting bigger, they were pummeling, pounding, this time they weren't going to leave, they weren't going to vanish in the mists of dreamland, THIS TIME THEY ARE FOR REAL AND....

"Yes, sir, it was my decision to abandon the divers outside. Lieutenant Commander Nathan Caden, my Exec, and Torpedoman's Mate Marty Reitz."

We had no choice, you see. It was them or us. There was nothing that could be done.

And then, it came to him. It came flooding in like the wind that precedes a hurricane, not a strong wind, more a stiff breeze, a howling, whining, tortured crying thing, waning of the destruction to come, letting you know what lies waiting for you just beyond the horizon. It all came in, just like that.

Daddy X was Nathan Caden was the Alligator Man was Daddy X was Nathan Caden.

So simple.

The more he fought, the more he was sure. It was Caden in there, Caden lost in the infernal soul of this God-cursed slobbering, pustulous monstrosity.

It's a fucking diving suit is what it is.

He swung again, closing in, straining until he thought his lungs would burst, holding off those stubby piston arms, jabbing for a weak spot. It didn't seem like there was one.

Daddy X sensed the renewed strength of the man he was fighting. They grappled and butted and flailed at each other, each lunge slowed by the water, churning up silt and mud and algae until the center of the swamp was a boiling, frothy mess. Each blow was more vicious than the last and both men knew that the moment of decision was near. The gators still circling sensed that too and began closing in steadily, probing with their snouts at the outer edge of the melee with each pass.

Bart Millen fought desperately for leverage. He knew he couldn't stay down much longer. He could see the gators now, dull gray-black armored giants cruising only a few feet away, prowling for an opening, sensing that the Alligator Man was losing the fight. They were patient but hungry, poised to strike at any second.

He found something—a tube, a hose, a cable, he wasn't sure what. Leverage. He used it to shift himself to a better position. Whatever he had found, it startled Daddy X for he shuddered like he had been stung and loosened his grip. Bart yanked hard on the cable and then it came loose.

An explosion of bubbles followed. He had found an air hose.

Daddy X frantically disengaged and shook his huge head vigorously. Bubbles streamed upward, a geyser of them, enveloping both of them. He saw his opponent flounder up toward the surface and followed suit. They burst into the air and Bart gasped for oxygen, floating for a moment until he could get his breath back. A few yards away, hissing shrilly and venting spray in all directions, was the Alligator Man, looking like a beached whale.

Bart swam over and tore at the long snout. The jaws opened and came down, then seemed to lock. At first touch, the hide that encased him felt real but the more he groped for a seam or a zipper, the more he was sure that it wasn't. Lifelike but fake. A good illusion, with its base of neoprene rubber, like a wet suit, on which plates and scales had been sewn. Even close up, it looked real. A damn good illusion.

Bart Millen jerked on the end of the snout and tore a rip right at the base, just under the orange eyes. He jerked a little harder and the thing came off in his hand. A face mask, a helmet of sorts, that's what it was. A great whoosh of stale air escaped when he ripped it free.

Underneath was Nathan Caden. Older, more gaunt, his eyes were sunken in deep into his skull, giving him a skeletal look. But it was Caden, no doubt about it.

Something bumped him from behind. He turned—it was one of the gators, a real gator, circling out to come at them again. He was helpless where he was—they were both perfect targets. Behind him, Caden coughed and gurgled as he was coming to.

"GET OUT OF THERE, MAN!"

It was Little Spider, crouching on the bank down by the water's edge. Bart looked over—he was waving frantically, pointing to the gators now gathering for the attack.

"GET THE HELL AWAY FROM THERE!"

Bart needed no further warning. He broke into a mad swim, pulling hard for the shallows, just as one of the gators brushed by. He caught a quick glimpse over his shoulder.

Caden was thrashing about violently in his waterlogged suit. "Don't leave me here, Millen! You can't leave me here like this! Help, for Chrissakes, HELP ME! DON'T LEAVE ME HERE TO DIE!"

He disappeared underwater for a moment, a squint of pain on his face, before splashing back up, yelling, screaming and spitting and coughing water. He saw the gators moving in and screamed again.

"MILLEN—"

Bart saw that Little Spider had managed to pull Kim and Dean to safety; they stood next to him on the banks. Thank God. But he was still a long way from the shallows and he was numb and weak from exhaustion. He spied a gator sliding off into the water right in front of him, heading directly for him. He didn't have the strength to go much longer—he could see Little Spider waving his arms, yelling something, but Caden's thrashing drowned it out.

He turned for one last look.

"MILLEEEENNNN...!"

He whirled around, hearing more splashing. It was Little Spider—he had plunged into the swamp, beating the water with his hands, trying to distract the gator heading right for Bart Millen. Bart watched in horror as the creature veered from its course and sliced through the water to intercept him. Little Spider waved at him.

"GO ON, MAN! GET AWAY—GET THE HELL OUT!" He slipped on the muck and slid underwater for a moment and in that instant, the gator was upon him. Bart barely had time to watch; he groped for a stout vine trailing in the water and pulled himself wearily up onto the banks, scrambling and slipping his way onto firmer ground. Behind him, Little Spider managed to fight for a minute before succumbing to the attack. He was soon dragged screaming underwater and a dull red stain bloomed at the surface, spreading out on top of the boiling waves and bubbles that remained.

The rest of the herd now turned its attention to Caden. He floundered helplessly in the center of the swamp, his suit leaking badly, exhausting himself trying to stay afloat. In the coppery glow of the Sampson candles, his face was aflame with fear, his eyes wild and desperate. He was whining and gasping, spewing water and slowly yielding to fatigue and terror. He realized that he no longer had any control over the gators and, as they prowled ever closer, probing for the right moment to attack, the timber of his voice drifted more toward panic with each word.

Bart heaved in great gulps of air, trying to get his breath back. He knew there was nothing he could do for the man now. Just like before.

"FOR GOD'S SAKE, CAPTAIN, DON'T LEAVE ME LIKE THIS—"

Bart struggled to his feet when he saw Sarah come stumbling through the woods. She had Dean by the hand. Deep in the shadows, unable to watch the death of her mentor, Kim hung back behind a tree. Bart realized that all of the children had gathered around her—there were dozens of them, all in varying stages of transformation, a spectrum of human and reptilian characteristics, all standing in mute witness to the furious struggle of the good Daddy they had once called master. Bart shivered at the sight and turned his attention back to Caden.

"MILLEN, I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL GET EVEN!"

Bart cupped his hands. "There's nothing I can do!"

"GODDAMN YOU TO HELL AND BACK! YOU LEFT ME FOR DEAD ONCE AND I CAME BACK! I'LL COME BACK THIS TIME TOO!"

"Can't you stop them? You control them—you're the Alligator Man!"

Caden sank again and clawed his way back up wheezing and gasping, nearing the end.

"IT'S THE POWER, MILLEN! A MAN WHO'S GOT THE POWER—" But he never finished, for in that instant, the herd struck and Caden was pulled underwater, screaming horribly, his face red and near to bursting.

"GODDAMN YOU, MILLLEEENNN...."

He son disappeared in an explosion of bubbles and bloody froth. The gators of Daddy X's swamp would feast well tonight.

Bart stood with Sarah in numb shock at what they had just seen. The surface of the swamp heaved with the fury of the struggle going on underwater but it was over. And Little Spider, reluctant and doubting to the end, had given his life to see that Bart and his children would survive.

"It's horrible," Sarah whispered. She clung tightly to Dean with both arms, burying his head against her breast. She shuddered as a train of bubbles burst at the surface. The swamp water was momentarily still. Then, one by one, the wet glistening humps of a dozen alligators rose up out of the murky water and glided silently toward the shore, their passage marked by a big "V" trailing behind.

"We'd better get out of here and call the Sheriff," Bart said. He looked around. "Where's Kim?"

He walked over to the edge of the tree line and stood staring at the gathering of Daddy X's children. They trembled and shifted uneasily under his glare.

It was the first time he had thought of them as children and not as the hideous creatures they appeared to be. He didn't know whether they could be helped at all.

"Kim?" He scanned the group anxiously, aware that each face looked much like the other. A damn terrarium is what it looks like. "Kim, are you in there?"

Several of the children moved aside and then from behind the front line emerged a small, gangly looking thing, pustulous and scaly and rancid, staring down at the ground.

"Kim?"

She wouldn't, or couldn't, look at him, and as she approached, reluctantly, he saw that she was crying. Tears. A film of wet beading up around the encrusted hide that encircled her eyes.

Bart loved her in that moment more than he had ever loved her before. He stooped down and placed his hands on the sides of her face, bringing her eyes up to look at him. They were distant and featureless and showed only the vaguest spark of recognition. But that didn't matter. He held her for a minute, feeling the rough, pitted and scarred hide that had overgrown her once beautiful skin. None of that mattered.

"We're back together again," he said, searching her face for some hint of understanding. "That's all that counts. Once the doctors go to work, you'll be as good as new."

"What about the others?" Sarah asked. "What'll happen to them?"

Bart took Kim's hand in his and led her gently into the woods. There was no life, no strength to her grip at all, but that was okay. It was enough that she was alive. With his other hand, he took Sarah's and she, Dean's. Together, they made their way back along the clogged and soggy path they had come.

"I don't know, honey. I'm not sure anybody can help them now. Some of them are so far gone—"

"Don't say it."

Bart shrugged, holding aside a branch to let them pass. "All right, I won't. But mercy killing may be the best way."

"I don't want to think about it now."

"We may not have to. Look."

The rest of Daddy X's children were following them. All around, on every side, in front and behind, the woods were full of them, silent and hollow-eyed, trudging right along with them. They were free now of the influence of the Alligator Man and they wandered aimlessly alongside the path, keeping right up with the Millens as they made their way back out to Gallivant Road.

Sarah looked at Bart. "What on earth are we going to do with them?"

2.

Vernon Tatum was there when they arrived, along with three cars of State Troopers. He stood on the side of the road, with his foot propped up on the bumper of his cruiser, studying a map in the beam of his flashlight, when he saw the Millens and their entourage emerge from the woods. He dropped the map and stared in disbelief at the sight. When several State troopers saw the children hanging at the edge of the woods, afraid to come out into the spotlights that had been hastily erected so that Bart's ditched car could be examined, they drew their guns and took aim.

"Wait a minute, goddamnit," said Tatum. He held up his hand and went across the road. The Millens waited, Kim hiding her face in her mother's blouse. "Are you folks all right? Where the hell have you been?"

Bart watched the troopers slowly lower their guns. There was an uneasy suspicion on their faces—several of the men whispered something to each other. He really couldn't blame them.

"Tell your men everything's okay. Daddy X won't be bothering anyone anymore."

Tatum squinted doubtfully, stepping back to survey the other children. His nose wrinkled at the sight. "I take it you met up with the Alligator Man?"

Bart nodded. "He's dead now. Under ten feet of water, back there about a mile and a half. These are the missing children."

Tatum shook his head. "I'll be damned. They all look like-" He shook his head again and stepped over the culvert to get a better look. The children shielded their faces from the glare of his flashlight.

"There's something else you'd better know."

"What's that?"

"Little Spider was with us. He gave his life helping us get away."

Tatum came back down to the road, never quite able to take his eyes off the children in the woods. He switched off his flashlight, stuck it in a loop on his belt and stood there with his hands on his hips. Bart noticed Jimmy Lattimore among a gathering of troopers across the road.

"Ya'll want something to drink? I expect you got a lot of things you want to tell me."

There was a State Police Crime Scene Unit among the vehicles parked alongside the road. Tatum had the Millens served coffee and Cokes and doughnuts while he stood by, listening. A doctor, a stout bearded man named Faulks, insisted on examining Kim and Dean. An assistant was dispatched to coax the children down for their own examinations, one by one. The rest of the troopers milled about uneasily, while Bart related the story of what had happened.

Tatum sucked on an unlit cigar while Bart talked. When he was done, he thought for a few moments, kneading the cigar around in his mouth, and snorted.

"So you're really saying that all these years, daddy X, the Alligator Man, was really this Nathan Caden? The man who used to be your Exec aboard the Tulsa?"

"Exactly." Bart slurped some coffee. It was lukewarm but it tasted great.

"It don't make no sense. What's the motive?"

Bart shrugged. "That's hard to figure. Caden was always a vindictive man. He didn't like to be crossed. He'd always felt the Navy passed him over for promotions, especially when the Tulsa command came open. That's why he resented me, among other reasons."

"But why this masquerade?"

"I was thinking about that, while we walked back through the woods. Clearly, he didn't go down when Tulsa slipped off that ledge. Somehow, he managed to survive. He must have washed ashore along the Brazilian coastline. I'm sure he thought I had assigned him to that scuba detail for a reason and then left him for dead on purpose. Caden thought like that."

"Sounds to me like he had a plan pretty well thought out."

Bart nodded. "Knowing Caden, I'm sure he did. He was pretty thorough, in his way. He was out to do several things: discredit me publicly, as the 'hero' of the Tulsa, an image I never wanted or deserved anyway—that's what was behind all those statuettes in the mail. He wanted to make me into some kind of babbling superstitious fool. I'm sure he had it in mind to eventually get rid of me in some way, a way that could never be traced back to him. As far as the world knew, Nathan Caden was dead. So long as he could hide behind the mask of Daddy X, he was free to do just about anything to terrorize me and my family. In the end, I believe he wanted to make himself into the hero."

Tatum finally gave in and lit up the cigar he had been chewing on. He puffed vigorously on the stub for a few seconds.

"We dredged the Combahee River where that Lattimore kid said. He was telling the truth."

Bart watched as Sarah went over to see how Kim and Dean were making out in their examination. He didn't blame her for finding the conversation difficult. We've all been through enough.

"What did you find?"

Tatum showed him a few pictures, taken underwater, by the police divers. The lighting was bad—some kind of special flash for underwater work—but the outlines of the structure were clearly visible. "This guy Caden didn't miss a trick. He had a regular hotel down there."

"It looks like a big sphere."

"That's basically what it is. A fully pressurized, underwater habitat. That's what one of the divers called it. Never heard of such. But that's where Daddy X lived. No wonder we couldn't find him all these years. You should have seen one of the diving suits they brought up."

Bart smiled. "I already did. It's a helluva piece of workmanship. And Caden was a top notch diver."

Tatum showed Bart the pictures they had taken of the special suits and equipment, laid out along the banks of the river for the photographer. He could have prowled the creeks and swamps and rivers of Bay County for years, without ever coming to the surface."

"Except to spread a little terror now and then."

Tatum chuckled. "I would have wet my pants too if I'd seen something like that on a dark night. What is all that equipment? What would something like that cost?"

"Thousands, if you could find it at all. Most of it's hand crafted. I'll bet if you check out the marine and diving shops along the coast around here, you'll find some interesting work orders."

"Good idea." Tatum sighed, stuffing the pictures back into their folder. "Seems like a lot of money and trouble to go through. For revenge, I mean."

Bart finished his coffee. He set the cup back down on the counter and toyed with some doughnut crumbs there.

"That's the way Nathan Caden was. He was a fine officer, when he wanted to be. But he was affected somehow. He thought people were always plotting behind his back, out to get him. He once told me, when we were both serving aboard the Kingfish, that the Navy wouldn't recognize his talents, that he had no future in the service. I asked him, if that was so, why didn't he get out?"

"What did he say?"

"I don't recall exactly. Something about still having a lot to learn. He had some kind of plan, even back then. He was going to be famous, or infamous, one way or the other."

Tatum pulled out a sheaf of wrinkled papers from his pocket. "You might find this interesting reading. It's state's evidence, but I'll let you keep it for the night, if you want."

Bart took the papers. They were yellowed and showed holes and marks of years of stapling and paper clipping. "What are they?"

Tatum smiled. "Just read them. Let me know what you think."

Puzzled, Bart nodded. He stuffed them into his own pocket. "It's a shame about Little Spider. I liked him. We all did."

The Sheriff hitched up his pants and switched off the light over the portable counter. The mosquitos and gnats had become unbearable and he slapped his neck, trying to shoo off a few. "I expect India Haynes'll be hearing the news before long. I suppose I ought to go visit her before she hears it from somebody else. Willie was awful close to that woman. And her son. I used to watch him and Gibby playing hide and seek in the woods on the other side of my trailer a lot of times. I think he and India would have got married before too much longer. Bay County's gonna be a poorer place without him. And his papa." He stopped for a moment, scuffing at a rock in the road. He kicked it skipping into the culvert. There was a quiet splash. Across the road, Dr. Faulks had enlisted the help of the other troopers in bringing the frightened children out of the woods, out into the light, where they could be examined. "I guess Little Spider died the way he wanted to, though. Doing the root and living up to the memory of Dr. Spider. I know that doing right by his papa was awful important to him."

Bart agreed. "He saved my life."

Tatum cringed at the sound of children crying, children unused to being touched by loving human hands. He sympathized with the troopers. "I don't know what can be done for these kids. Do you?"

"Maybe there's something."

"Maybe." Tatum switched on his flashlight, studying the Little Captains on the counter. They had all been carefully disassembled. "Clever, using these little transistor radios to control the kids, don't you think?"

Bart nodded silently.

Tatum spat on the ground. "Well, guess I'll go see about getting your car out of that ditch."

"Right." Bart watched him stroll off to where the tow truck was backing up to his car. A thin man, stripped bare to his waist, was guiding the driver up to the gully. Tatum wandered over, determined that they were doing it all the wrong way. He made the driver pull away and try it again.

Bart Millen watched the operation for a few minutes, then remembered the sheaf of papers the Sheriff had given him. He pulled them out, then switched on the light over the counter again, to read.

It was a journal of sorts, a log Caden had kept from the time he had first washed ashore to the present. He scanned the pages and soon realized the true extent of Caden's scheme.

As he had surmised, he had learned his craft from an old Indian sorcerer in Brazil. A man named Pai Ferro had convinced Caden that he had a divine mission because the goddess of the sea, Yemanja, had brought him safely to land near the village of Cururupu. In his delirious state, he had believed the old witch doctor and it was only later, that this idea merged with his hunger for revenge against the man who had left him for dead.

Bart swallowed hard. He had come close, too close, to carrying out the plan. Caden had settled in Bay County in late 1969, taking up the legend of the white witch doctor Daddy X that he had heard from a motel maid in Charleston upon his return. He had conceived the details even then. To publicly discredit the hero of the Tulsa, to destroy the man who had nearly destroyed him, and ultimately, to replace Millen as the real hero of the Tulsa and reap all the rewards and the adulation, the lecture fees and the book contracts, that he felt should have been his.

But he had to be sure no one could connect the demise of Bart Millen with the name of Nathan Caden. It was only well after this part had been completed, that Caden had planned to ditch the Daddy X disguise and come out of hiding. It had almost worked.

Bart read on for a few more pages. The complexity and the details were impressive. It had taken Caden years to put it all together. In the meantime, he had stalked them all over the country, keeping up with their whereabouts, hiring others to harass and torment them. Bart understood now the source of so many of those crank letters and midnight phone calls they had gotten. It was all by design.

Everything had been mapped out to perfection. It was clear from his notes that Caden was forever concerned with a pesky Sheriff Tatum and, of course, Dr. Spider himself. He had understood that he would have to solidify his reputation in Bay County before he could hope to put his plan into effect.

Toward that end, he had begun a calculated program of intimidation and harassment in the county, lasting almost four years, and culminating in the death of Caleb Merris in 1975, an incident which seemed to finally galvanize the white population of the county into realizing that there was a war on between root doctors—the rumors coming out of the black community were true. His legend for ferocity was growing and, in time, he had come to believe his own press clippings, glorying in the hysterical reporting of the Bayville Post.

Bart's decision to return to Charleston, where Sarah's mother lived, and their finding that darling little house on Sandy Creek Road down in Bay County, had played right into his hands. Upon their return, Caden had put the final phase of his plan into operation. He had nearly brought it off.

There was even a brief treatment of a movie script, attached to the back of the journal. Bart rifled through the pages, realizing that it was the story of the Tulsa going down, precise as to most details, but rewritten in key parts. And Nathan Caden was the star.

The last few [pages were answers to questions Caden expected to be asked about his story. A sort of imaginary press conference. Bart winced at the way the facts were distorted and quickly stuffed the papers back in his pocket when he saw Sarah coming. He didn't want her to see it.

He just wanted the nightmare to be over, for all of them. But he knew it would be a very long time before the scars of that day in 1965 were healed.
Epilogue

It was a mild, dry, crisp day in October when Opal Lee Pitts said hello to Riley Hatch and told him to go find Lettie so they could sit together out on the front porch of her cabin and snap beans and talk. Fall is the dry season in Bay County, a time when the oppressive humidity had abated and the winds shift from the southeast to the north. Cooler air flows through the woods in those wonderful crystalline days when the sky is a deep porcelain blue, air that originates in the icy wastes of the North Atlantic but which is warmed considerably by the time it has crossed the Gulf Stream, so that it becomes comfortably invigorating, most welcome after six months of sweltering summer heat.

It was just such air that prompted Opal Lee Pitts to take the bus across town and walk on out to visit Lettie Hatch.

She waited patiently out by the stoop while Riley went inside and fetched his aunt from her tea making. A minute later, a big round pie of a face grinned out the through the screened door.

"That you down there, Opal Lee?"

Opal Lee Pitts grinned back and held up the basket she had draped over her one good arm. "It is, for a fact. Come on out here, woman. It's a fine day. I got me a mess of snap beans from the Public Market on the way over here."

"You just hold on for a second while I get the tea ready. Riley—" She poked her nephew in the stomach to get his attention, then shaped her words carefully, so that he would understand. "—Riley, you go 'round back and bring out that old wicker table and clean it off. We be using that to hold our beans when we done. You know the one I be talking about." Riley nodded and opened the door to go find it. Lettie grabbed his arm and added: "You stay out of them baskets of figs too, you hear me?"

He nodded, a bit sheepishly, and loped off.

Opal came up on the porch and helped Lettie arrange the chairs to give themselves some room. The women settled themselves next to a budding cactus plant that Lettie had sitting on the railing and Lettie poured them both some hot herbal tea from the kettle she had brought out. She hung the kettle from a hook protruding from the wooden post. They sipped thoughtfully for a few minutes.

"Mmmm. It is a fine day at that, Opal Lee. Sure enough is."

Opal took out a patterned handkerchief to wipe her lips with. "I tol' you it was, woman."

Riley returned with the wicker table, freshly hosed down. He set it up on the porch, right between the woman, then handed Opal her basket of beans. She nodded smilingly at the boy, who smiled back and went off to sit off under the shade of the chinaberry tree out front, where he had been carving something with a knife.

"What's he making there, Lettie?"

Lettie had already started snapping beans, throwing the husks onto the table before them, dropping the beans into a bowl sitting on her lap. "I don' really know what that's gon' be. He likes to whittle up animal shapes, you know. He did them birds hanging on the other side of the porch."

Opal leaned forward and saw the delicate pine sculpture of a pair of birds, dangling from twine nailed up on the eaves. They were both painted a dull charcoal black.

"Sure enough? I swear I thought them crows was real when I first came up."

"He is getting better," Lettie agreed.

They snapped beans for a while, in silence. It was just after noon and Riley disappeared for a while, before returning with an old gray stallion in tow. He led the horse up to the tree and petted it for a few moments, before setting to work grooming its dull, fading coat.

"I do love old Ocee," Lettie murmured, watching Riley stroke her lovingly. "She been on this earth a long time."

Opal nodded. "It be good that some things don't never change. We needs things to hold onto in times like this."

Lettie snapped some more beans, deftly tossing the shells into the cloth of the table. "Sure ain't gon' be the same around here without Dr. Spider."

"I know what you mean. My stump is already hurting me. Even Little Spider ain't around no more. I know his Papa had such high hopes for that boy."

Riley carefully worked his way around Ocee from one side to the other. The old stallion neighed gently and gazed up at them sitting on the porch with a look of utter bliss.

"You been reading the papers lately?"

Lettie murmured. "Some."

Opal stopped snapping for a moment. The sunlight glinted off something in the woods on the other side of the chinaberry tree. Nothing moved so she went back to her snapping. But Ocee had noticed it too. She turned skittish and unruly for a few moments, frightened of something, before Riley managed to calm her down.

"What you readin' in the papers lately?" Lettie asked.

Opal shrugged. "Oh, 'bout Daddy X and how he be gone from Bay County now. How we finally be rid of him for good."

Lettie snorted and reached for her tea. She sipped for a while, letting the hot liquid trickle down her parched throat. Both women marveled at the naiveté of the white folks.

"Buckra can be stupid sometimes. No gettin' around that," Opal said.

Lettie agreed. She talked over the rim of her cup. "It ain't over, not by a long shot. That Daddy X, he gon' live in one of them gators out there, just for a spell, just biding his time. This Caden dude they talked about was just the most latest one to host the good Daddy. You wait and see."

Opal leaned forward to pick up a few beans she had dropped on the porch. She grunted.

"I know that's right."

The woman chatted on, most of the afternoon, snapping beans and sipping tea and speculating out loud on what lay ahead for the citizens of Bay County.

As she had before, old Ocee grew a bit skittish when Riley had finished grooming her and led her off toward the tiny shed where she liked to sleep most of the day. Neither Lettie Hatch nor Opal Lee Pitts gave any sign that they noticed. And if Riley had seen what the old stallion had sensed, he wouldn't have been able to say so anyway.

For just beyond the monkey grass that grew so tall at the edge of the woods, fed so Lettie always said, by a tiny stream that meandered back and forth across the boundary to her property, lay a dusky black twelve-foot alligator, crouching low and quiet, sunning itself on the banks of the stream.

Sunning and snoozing. And listening.
About the Author

Philip Bosshardt is a native of Atlanta, Georgia. He works for a large company that makes products everyone uses...just check out the drinks aisle at your grocery store. He's been happily married for over 20 years. He's also a Georgia Tech graduate in Industrial Engineering. He loves water sports in any form and swims 3-4 miles a week in anything resembling water. He and his wife have no children. They do, however, have one terribly spoiled Keeshond dog named Kelsey.

To learn about or purchase other books by Philip Bosshardt, visit his website at http://philbosshardt.wix.com/philip-bosshardt or visit www.smashwords.com.

233
