

The Specter

Published by Philip Bosshardt at Smashwords

Copyright 2018 Philip Bosshardt

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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List of Players

Alex Perry – owner of Perry Book and Drug Store, Scotland Lake

Bette Perry – Alex's wife

Marcy Perry – oldest child of Alex and Bette

Jimmy Perry – youngest child of Alex and Bette

Frank Costa – physician in Scotland Lake

Jeanne Costa – Frank's wife

Suzie Costa – only child of Frank and Jeanne

Sam Burdette – Mayor of Scotland Lake, President of Mountain National Bank

Joe Burdette – brother of Sam Burdette, town councilman

Dick Mosley – Chief of Police, Scotland Lake

Greta Blanchard – Owner/operator of Cathedral Caverns; husband deceased

Jack Blanchard – Greta's son, ex-USAF pilot and Vietnam POW

Raymond Stocker – Owner/operator of Nicoll's Island amusement park

Jasmine Stocker – wife of Raymond

Rita Donze Gutierrez – housekeeper to Lucille Perry (Alex's grandmother in Savannah)

Capt. Rodrigo Donze Gutierrez – Rita's uncle; immigrant Dominican cruise boat operator

Walt Ames – Chief mechanic at Red Beavers' Top Flite gas station

Toni Ames – Walt's wife; part time clerical assistant to Chief Mosley

Louis "Goatface" Beems – Owner/operator of Table Top Stables

Sue Kemmons – waitress at Moonlight Café; Jack Blanchard's girlfriend

Robert McNeese – founder of Scotland Lake; patriarch of McNeese stores and companies

Sandy Stearns – gas pump attendant at Top Flite gas station

Red Beavers – Owner/operator of Top Flite gas station

"Billy" – Original physical 'home' of the entity who has no name
PROLOGUE

September, 1644

A stiff gust of wind rattled the shroud lines of the main course as Captain Whitsmith stared hard into the dark eyes of his companion on the quarterdeck. Colonel Samuel Cochran didn't blink and didn't repeat what he had just said.

Whitsmith grabbed a backstay to steady himself as the Christina heaved about in rough seas. "With all respects, sir, we'll not make landfall tonight, not in this weather. Look yonder, through the ratlines. See that scud?" Whitsmith rubbed his stubbly chin wearily, "No, sir. we've quite a storm brewing out there."

Cochran stared imperiously at the chop in the distance. "Jamestowne is expecting us by the twenty-third, Captain Whitsmith. I'll not disappoint the Governor, nor any of these brave settlers." He shifted his gaze slightly until it met the eyes of the Master. "Do you understand? I want the sails up and sheeted throughout the night." He fixed his eyes to Whitsmith's for a moment, then made for the hatch. In seconds, he was below and Whitsmith quivered with rage.

The First Mate, Mr. Garrett, appeared at Whitsmith's side and laid a hand on the Master's shoulder. "A sea lawyer if ever I saw one, Captain. He'll have us in splinters before the day is out if I know him."

Whitsmith took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "Not the Christina. Not my ship. I'll see the wag in irons before that happens." He studied the clouds for a moment, sniffing the air and watching the topman steady himself as he worked with the foreyard jackstays. "We've a stiff cross-sea, Mr. Garrett." The First Mate spat out a chunk of the salt horse he had been chewing. "Aye, sir, and broken water to the larboard quarter."

Whitsmith turned to see and muttered "blast these God-cursed shoals. That's it, then. We've no choice. Have Mr. Howse order the Able Seaman to stand by. We'll be sharpening up the yards shortly."

"Aye, aye, sir." Garrett watched as the Captain went aft to the poop, then hailed the Boatswain.

The Christina had been at sea for the better part of two months, following the routes pioneered by His Majesty's galleons since the founding of the settlement at Jamestown. She was a stout three-master in the Merchant Service, square-rigged fore and main with a lateen hung on her mizzen. It had not been the smoothest voyage in Robert Whitsmith's long career--they had nearly capsized fifteen leagues south of La Palma when a sudden whirlpool had beset them--but at least they had made the ocean crossing intact and had land off the larboard side now. The nor'east trades had been kind to them after the whirlpool but the Christina still faced several weeks of hard work beating up the coast toward Virginia.

Whitsmith was no more suspicious than any good seaman but as he stared landward, he couldn't help but shudder. The Admiralty did not give its official approval to omens in navigating a merchantman across the ocean but the whirlpool had shaken the crew badly. Now the Christina was tacking north with a gale brewing out to sea and dangerous shoals to be negotiated.

It was hard not to feel they were being stalked. Damn that Cochran. He's no feel for the moods of the sea at all. But we'll--

His thoughts were interrupted by shouting from the half-deck. Whitsmith whirled and saw a fight underway just abaft the mainmast. Two burly men were grappling with each other, rolling about the deck, to jeers and cheers from the rest of the deck crew.

Whitsmith bounded down from the poop and went after them.

"Break it up! Break it up!" He could see that it was the topman, Gillis, and one of the carpenter's mates going at it. Whitsmith reached the melee and grabbed Gillis' hair, yanking it back hard. "Mr. Howse, get the Master-at-Arms up here immediately. "

The carpenter's mate had a bloody nose when it was over and the Master-at-Arms had him secure on the deck with his arm twisted behind him in seconds. The Boatswain's mate and two deck hands held the topman back.

Whitsmith glared angrily at the carpenter's mate. He was a gaunt fellow, sallow-cheeked with cruel lines about his mouth, now lined with the blood streaming freely out of his nostrils.

"What's your name, seaman?"

The mate started to answer, then bit his lip and said nothing.

He returned the Captain's glare, eyes black with hatred.

William Davis, the Master-at-Arms, twisted the mate's wrists a bit and the man groaned. "Answer the Captain, lad, before I pull your arms from their sockets."

The mate glowered and spat blood. "Perry...sir!"

Whitsmith studied him coldly. "You're the rascal the Colonel saved from the gallows, aren't you? Manchester. I believe it was."

One of the deck hands guffawed. "Another debtor pressed into His Majesty's service, eh Captain?" There was a rumble of laughter about them. "Wonder what the crimp got for shanghaiing this scum?"

"That's enough!" yelled Garrett.

Whitsmith signaled Davis to let the man up. Perry staggered to his feet and wiped his nose with a grimy forearm. "The Colonel has a weak heart for the downtrodden. Mister Perry, but I do not. On this ship, you'd best praise your good fortune. I'd as soon see you back in prison as among my crew. Another row like this and I'll have you lashed to the gratings and flogged. You too, Mister Gillis. Mister Davis, escort them both to the bilge room. They're to lay in irons for the night, with short rations."

"Aye, sir." He poked Gillis in the ribs with his cobbing board and said, "Come on, lads. it's--"

But he never finished the sentence for at that very moment the Christina was struck amidships by a furious sea, which leaped the bulwarks and crashed over onto the deck, scattering men and gear everywhere.

At the same instant, a strong gale roared through the ship's riggings and masts, snapping the foretopgallant and forecourse backstays with a shrieking crack. The ropes whipped down with deadly force onto the half deck, flaying two seamen who didn't dive aside in time. They rolled along the deck in agony, but there was no time to see to them.

Another gust had broadsided the ship and this time, the storm loosed her rains with a vengeance.

Captain Whitsmith clung tightly to the mainmast and shouted, "Stand by the topgallants, Mr. Garrett!" His voice was weak and nearly lost as the men strained with the clew lines to furl in the thundering canvas to the yards. "Ready the halyards and sheets!"

Through the torrents of rain, Whitsmith could see the First Mate mouthing the words. "Aye, sir!"

The next few minutes seemed to last forever. The gale bore down on the Christina with unabated fury, pounding her toward the reefs that lay just off shore. Already she was listing to her beam ends on the larboard side as wave after wave smashed into her. The crew worked desperately to get her sails shortened but the winds were frenzied and tore at the tops without let-up. Several seamen were hurled from the yards out into the foaming froth of the ocean and swept under. The Boatswain himself, Mr. Howse, just caught hold of a main shroud, else he too would have been cast overboard.

Then, suddenly, the Christina shuddered mightily, striking a reef with such force that it splintered the mainmast. The gale seemed to gain force and it drove the ship against the reef again and again, viciously, relentlessly slamming her wales on the rock and sand beneath. At the moment of impact, when the mast cracked and gave way, all the shrouds and stays shot loose with the sound of musket fire and sliced through the mizzen and foretops, shredding what was left of the drenched canvas to pieces.

Whitsmith was hurled to the deck and struck by a flying clew-garnet. He slumped forward, trying to get up, and died seconds later. Garrett saw what had happened and staggered across the pitching deck to the Captain's side. He soon realized there was nothing to be done.

Garrett stood up and boomed, "Come on men! Brail in the spanker! Secure those braces before we lose another mast!"

"Mr. Garrett! cried Moorcock, a seaman clinging to the stump of the bowsprit. "Mr. Garrett, she's making water fast! I can see where she's stove in, back there along the wales!"

"I see it, Mr. Moorcock, I see it! Burns, hey and Mr. Lyttle, take your hands forward to the hatchways and start bailing. Get the pumps manned too!"

"Aye, sir," came a distant voice.

The Christina shuddered again and heeled over further.

From belowdecks came the cry, ''It's the rudder, Mr. Garrett. She's knocked out of her gudgeons!"

Howse scuttled along the splintered planking of the quarterdeck, clinging precariously to the bulwarks and came up to the First Mate. He squinted in the blinding rain.

"She's lost, sir! She'll be pounded into dust on the reefs! "

Garrett nodded grimly. "The captain's dead, Mr. Howse! See to the boats!" Howse turned to carry out the orders, but Garrett grabbed him back. "And get that bloody carpenter's mate and some other men to thrumb a topsail under her bottom—maybe we can still fother her!"

"Aye, sir—I'll keep the rest bailing and pumping to the last!" Howse broke away and soon disappeared into the storm.

The gale raged throughout the night and the Christina was soon wedged stern first against the sand shoals. By the time the first faint gray of dawn came, it was clear that she could not last another hour. The winds tore angrily at the broken mastheads and rigging and the bow was now so far out of the water that the pitch of the deck made standing impossible. All along the yards and booms, men had huddled for shelter during the night, praying that the gale would abate before she broke up.

By dawn, the First Mate ordered the boats away and when the orders came, men swarmed about the roundhouse, ready to descend by the stern ladders. The ship was listing badly by then and her wales had been stove in for the better part of the night. Panic ripped through the crew as the men fought their way to be first off.

Three men never made it to the boats however. Carpenter's mate Perry clung tenaciously to the end of the jib-boom at the bow, as the Christina settled deeper into the water and began to come apart. Topman Gillis and Master-at-Arms Davis were both hanging by their arms from the bobstay, lashed by wind and rain and shrieking for the others not to cast off without them. The carpenter's mate gulped hard as the ship lurched badly.

"Mother of God, we're done for," he muttered to himself, choking on his words as the rain filled his mouth. "I'll have to leap from here...and hope."

The gale drove a solid wall of water from the starboard beam and the wave broadsided them, wrecking what was left of the ship's rigging and mastwork. It rose in a majestic curl high over the channels and bulwarks, then roared down on the two men swinging helplessly from the stays. They disappeared in an explosion of foam and were swept out to sea, dragged under amidst thin cries for help. Perry stared in horror and swallowed hard.

Merciful God. Take me now before I end up like them.

The carpenter's mate had only a few seconds to pray before another sound reached his ears. Not the rumble of another wave abuilding, this was different. Much different. In all his miserable life, the man had never heard a wailing hiss so awful, so tormented, as he did now. In spite of himself, he scrambled around on the other side of the boom and tried to see what would cause such a sound. Sighting it, he felt a cold chill deep in his stomach.

It was a waterspout, tickling the crests of the waves maybe two cable lengths distant and bearing down on him relentlessly.

He had only time to endure one final lashing before the eerie lull becalmed him. In that instant of quiet before the waterspout's leading edge of squalls hit, Perry could hear his own heart marking time. Then, the winds came anew and with fatigue cramping his arms and shoulders, he knew he could not hold on.

He braced himself for the impact, falling as he knew he would right for the massive wall of water that would finally dash the Christina to pieces. But it never came. Gradually, he realized he felt light-headed and dizzy. He opened his eyes to a cautious squint and felt the rain sting them immediately.

Shielding his face--strange for his arms to fall away from his chest like that--he opened his eyes further.

No! Madonna, it can't be!

The whitecaps of the breakers were dwindling beneath him. Holding his eyes open to a slit with his fingers, he stared down and saw the wreckage of the Christina strewn about the surface of the sea like kindling. As he brought his vision up, he became dizzier and nauseated. He blinked the water out of his eyes and looked again.

It can't be! But...but...Great God...it is...I'm....

Aloft.

The spout had snatched him from the jib-boom and instead of hurling him into the ocean, it had carried him up, into the clouds, into the whirling heart of the vortex. He put out his arms and felt the wind yank hard until they were nearly torn off. Gingerly. he brought them back in, wincing at the pain of wrenched muscles. His head felt as though it would burst--all the blood had run up to his face. Sick to his stomach, Perry vomited only to have the crap flung back at his mouth and nostrils. He coughed and choked and felt a dagger twisting in his skull.

The gale seemed mindful of his presence too, for every time he tried to open his eyes, it flogged him with violent gusts of wind and rain. His face felt battered and puffy after a few minutes of this and he soon learned that he was better off blind.

In time, he became aware of subtle shifts in the whine of the storm. Breathing was difficult and he panicked when even the deepest, most painful breathing could not gather enough oxygen. He clawed madly at his throat, at his lungs, beating them to work better, to breathe, Goddamnit! but his lungs felt as though they were swollen with ballast stones. He realized that the gale had saved him from an early death, just so it could torment him in this new, more horrible way.

"Blast your foul, stinking innards to hell and back! Go ahead and kill me if that's what you want!" He screwed his eyes shut to wait for the inevitable.

Some hours later, Perry awoke with a start. He had lost consciousness for how long--he didn't know how long--but the wan sunlight had become stronger so he supposed it had to be near noon. He remembered a dream he had--a voice, thin and shrill, speaking to him. He couldn't recall the words. But the voice...it was pleading, begging him for something. Christ- it could have been my voice, he realized.

"Is this the way Hell is?"

He couldn't actually hear his own words. The thunder of the gale smothered any sound he could make. But he could feel the cords of his neck vibrate as he spoke. Somehow, that was reassuring. He tried to take stock of the situation. He was battered and waterlogged, from head to toe. His muscles were taut cords, strained to the breaking point. God alone knew how long he had been aloft. His head was so tender that any move to change position made that dagger in his skull twist a bit more. He hadn't dared to touch his face. It felt swollen and bloody.

How long?

The thought scuttled around in his mind like a filthy rat. He tried to shoo it away but it always came back, to lie there in the dank corner and glare at him, waiting.

How long can I hold out?

William Stiles St. Jean Perry was not a strongly religious man. His Majesty's jurists had made that clear enough on the day of his sentencing. Scoundrel, they had called him. Despicable rogue stealing like that. We'll see you get what you deserve, sir. It was funny, you know, the way they acted. So high and mighty and righteous, convicting a man for stealing cloth to make his little daughter a proper petticoat. When you consider he had slit a doorman's throat not two months earlier for a shilling and some grog.

The worthless scum. They've no more sense than an Irishman. I'd gladly rip out a man's gizzard and give it no more thought than kicking a bitch in heat. But to hang a man for stealing cloth, the bastards.

That thought again. It keeps staring at me. It's God's revenge. That bloody Cochran saved me from the hangman, for what? For this?

Cripes!

William Perry was not a religious man, not at all, but he wanted to live. He wanted to live very much.

What can it hurt, eh? A little prayer, a little beseeching, maybe a little forgiveness. If my sins were a lighthouse, He'd have no trouble finding me.

"God in heaven--hey, God, is that where I am?—God, most merciful in heaven, I accept what I am but I've no more stomach for this. I can't take it no more. You win. You're the Holy Father, you could get me out of this god-cur--that is er. this blasted infernal storm. I'd be eternally grateful, you know. I'd see the minister and confess. A great story--my life. The women love a wretched tale like mine. What d'ya say? An old boy like me--" He stopped abruptly, for the whine of the wind had slackened. An eerie calm fell upon him and he listened to his own heart thudding. A slight rustle and he cracked open an eye.

"God-?"

ln an instant, the air turned bitterly cold, frosty and heavy, and he shivered uncontrollably. The light of the sun was pale and crystalline and around him a solid bank of gray clouds spun. His nerves tingled.

"Is that you, God? Can you get me down from this--aarrgh! Grrrgh!" He gagged and spat out a wad of sputum. "By the Madonna's face, what is that smell?" A wave of nausea clenched his stomach.

\--only i can set you free, perry--

"Aarrgh!" He spat again and tasted blood "What was that?"

\--i will release you--

"Who's that? Who's there? I've gone bloody bonkers, I have. "

\--i am nameless but your god is nothing before me--

For a moment, he said nothing. I must hold my wits together. He was numb and frozen and exhausted and hungry and now delirious...why shouldn't he be? Truth was he had died when the Christina broke up--it was the jib-boom that had killed him, sliced him right in two and now he lay dead and cold in Davy Jones' locker. Fish food. Ha, maybe some cabin bov'll drop a net and haul me up for dinner.

"God. I am tired..."

\--i will strengthen you--

"And I'm hungry too, you know."

\--i will feed you--

"And a warm bunk--what about that?"

\--i will comfort you--

"Right. Hmmm, what about a woman, can you--"

\--perry. do not toy with me--

"WHAT DO YOU WANT WITH ME?" He cried hot tears and felt no shame at it.

\--only you--

"Me? I'm dead, don't you see that? Dead as that wretched cockhead Farley I stabbed. Deader even...HELP ME. Goddamn you to hell and back!"

\--i can help you, perry--

"HOW? FOR THE LOVE OF--WHO ARE YOU?"

\--i am the shadow of every seaman, perry--i am the lord of the ocean, if you like--i am the tempest-bringer, the sovereign of the sea., whatever name you choose -.-.

"You're the Devil, sir!"

\--if you wish--

"Lord, what fortune--I pray to God, the Father Almighty, and look what I dredge up--a demon, a blasted, accursed, bloody demon!" He let the laughter go until he cried again.

\--perry, let me help you--

"WHAT DO YOU-- he choked and coughed up some phlegm. "What do you want? I'm in Hell already."

\--i want an earthly home, perry--i want to live as men live, that's all--

"And me? What about me?"

\--grant me this, perry, and i will end this gale and set you safely aground, that i promise--

"Damn but this is funny, beast! Is there a notary about to witness our contract?"

\--perry. must i beg you--

"Beg me? I'm the mate who's dying, chum. You're a fine one for a demon, to be begging me for anything." He felt his face gingerly. It was hot and flushed. The fever, that would explain it. His eyeballs had gotten so numb that they didn't even register the motion of the clouds, though the vertigo had never subsided. "Hey, beast, are you still there?"

The whine of the wind was rising. Perry felt a knot of cold fear.

"Are you there?" He listened, straining, for anything. Any sound at all. God, forgive my blasted imagination. "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DON'T LEAVE ME, YOU FILTHY, LYING MURDEROUS BEAST!"

\--say yes, perry--

It was so weak, so fragile, he wasn't sure he had heard it at all. A dying man will hope for anything, even the impossible.

"YES. GODDAMN YOU TO HELL AND BACK--YES, YES!"

He didn't remember the bump at all. It must have knocked the crackerjack right out of him.

The jib-boom, that's what it was.

He opened his eyes to a slit. Everything swam in front of them. At least, he wasn't too dizzy. The nausea was gone now but his gut burned with the fire of molten pitch. He smelled something peculiar. An odor that for a split second, he couldn't place and then-- He shifted on aching muscles and chanced a better look, opening his eyes further.

Fatigued as he was, he hadn't at first realized that he was on solid ground. I must have nearly drowned out there. Bobbed about like a cork for the better part of a day. But it hurt to think too much, so he let the view come to him.

He seemed to be at the edge of a forest, for tall, spindly trees swayed gently overhead, nearly blotting out what light there was. He could smell stagnant water nearby, perhaps a swamp of some kind. The remains of his clothes were completely water-logged and clung like a second skin. Gingerly, he peeled off some patches of cloth from his forearm, and some vines and mossy threads as well. Guess I'll molt if I don't get dry soon. He raised up on an elbow.

There was a small fire crackling some ten yards distant, on top of a rather steep mound of twigs and kindling and dry brush. A black kettle bubbling over with some liquid hung suspended from a cord and rod arrangement over the flames. Perry took a deep breath.

My God, it's tea! That's what I smelled.

He sat up further and tried to focus. Somewhere behind the kettle, attached to a pair of hairy, mud-caked arms, was a face, a man's face. Even as he stared, the arms hoisted the kettle off its hook and quickly set it down on the dirt, then hung up a big black pot in its place. Two white eyes stared back.

"Yer feelin' any better, mate?" The voice was deep, hoarse and most welcome.

Perry sat up abruptly and winced as the dagger in his skull twisted a bit. His gut grumbled at the smell of tea and roasting meat.

The other man got up--he was a giant of coarse black hair and leathery skin--and brought a tin cup of tea over. He squatted beside Perry and lifted the scalding drink to his mouth. He gulped and it burned all the way down but it was the finest tea Perry had ever tasted. He burped and coughed a bit and while cleaning his face with an oily rag the man had left, the giant went back to refill the cup and fetch some haunches of meat. He set the cup down beside Perry and handed him a piece.

Perry took a bite and swallowed. It was rabbit and it was delicious. He tried to cram the entire thing into his mouth but the giant held his arm, then took the meat and fed him a few bites at a time.

"Yer too sick to be gobblin', mate. Just take it easy."

When he had stuffed himself to the point of vomiting, the giant gestured that Perry should lie back down. He fashioned a pillow out of straw and brush and covered him with an old worm- eaten quilt that looked like it had lain in the bilge room of a third-rate while crossing the Atlantic. It was as good as the finest English wool to Perry though, and the last he saw of the giant before dropping off to sleep was an image of the man squatting before the fire, a dull black musket propped up between his big legs, cleaning out the works with a cloth and swab. After that, nothing.

It took William Perry several days to regain some measure of lucidity and clarity of thought. In that time, he learned that the giant was named Therrelby and that he had been a prisoner of the Spanish for years in Hispaniola before escaping from a carrack that was reconnoitering the coast of a land called Florida. He had spent years in these swampy woods by himself, hunting, trapping and building crude huts. He had never expected to hear the sound of another man's voice again, let alone the sound of English. He told Perry that he had found him enmeshed in some vines deep in the swamp, in the lower branches of what he called "a stringy-tree," the kind that had enormous sheets of moss on its branches. "Thought you dead for certain," Therrelby croaked, slurping some tea as he squatted by the fire. "What happened to ya?"

Perry told him the story of the Christina's crossing and the gale, as best he could remember. As he talked, he became aware of how much better he now felt, how much stronger. Therrelby made marvelous tea and the rabbit and duck they had feasted on for the past few days had done him wonders.

Watching Therrelby's face as he related the tale of his adventures after the Christina had gone down, the mate could see that the old man was skeptical. Told dispassionately, like the story of some child's trip to the city, it did sound ridiculous even to Perry. His own words began to embarrass him and he was secretly thankful that Therrelby scoffed at them.

"It was the fever, mate. That's what it was."

"You must be right."

Therrelby groaned as he stood up and stretched. "You say you were a carpenter's mate?''

Perry nodded.

"Would ya possibly consider staying around here with me? I've lots of things I could use a carpenter for."

He wanted to consider it but an odd thought stilled his tongue and he said nothing for a moment.

An earthly home is a fine thing, lad.

It was that musket that bothered him. He had nothing at all to fear from Therrelby, indeed, he owed the man his life.

But still, he wondered. If I refuse, what will he do?

"What sort of things did you have in mind?"

Therrelby motioned for Perry to follow him. The giant stomped off through the woods, along a well-worn footpath that followed the edge of the swamp. Therrelby warned him not to stray from the dirt. "Swamp water's on both sides, mate, and it's well hidden in all that viny stuff. There's some fearsome scaly beasts about these parts too but they'll pay you no mind if you leave 'em alone."

They walked for ten minutes, until another clearing was visible ahead. In the middle of it, situated on a slight rise built up from piles of branches and brush was a half-built shack, roofless and rotting. They stopped at the edge of the clearing.

"Could use some help getting that place into shape, mate. It rains something awful around here. What d'ya say?''

The way Therrelby clapped a hand on Perry's shoulders annoyed him and he moved out of the giant's reach.

Oh, it's a fine home i'm in, mate.

Perry took a deep breath. He had never felt this way before. So strong, so vigorous and robust. Why, he could--

"What about tools?" he asked, clenching his fists by his sides.

Therrelby grinned a toothless grin. He waved his arm. "Over there, behind that woodpile. Everything you could need. Took it off a galleon that ran aground ten year ago. Go on, take a look."

Perry went over and checked. The old man was right. He stooped down to examine the tools, while Therrelby stepped inside the shack. From the sound of it, he was rummaging for something.

Quite a little stash of gear he had, too. Hammers, adze, trowel, axe, hooks, prickers. some carpenter's stopper. A sack of pegs.

It has been a long time, mate. Let's have a go at it.

He reached down for the axe. It had a smooth, worn handle, comfortable to grip. A keen edge on the blade. He picked it up and felt its weight balanced perfectly--a well-grafted Andalusian hacha. It felt so light in his hands, more like a halberd.

Therrelby stepped out of the shack and came around to see what he was up to. When Perry turned, the giant halted in mid-step, a queer twist to his face.

"Mate?" His eyes darted, seeking some weapon or cover.

"Mate, what are you doing?"

Perry's words were wooden, almost mechanical. "It's been a long time." He hoisted the axe. "I have so much to do."

Therrelby didn't wait another second. He dived for the ground, going after his musket, which he had leaned against a tree at the edge of the clearing.

But the axe was quicker. It came with a speed and accuracy and a force that no human could have supplied. The blade struck the giant below the temple, where the jawbone bridges over the soft flesh of the neck, cleaving his skull into shards of bone and flesh and sinew. There was a dull thump and a spurt of blood, and the man rolled to the ground, twitching, his jugular still pumping red into the mud. In a few seconds, the twitching stopped.

William Perry studied the carnage for a minute. admiring the skill and artistry of the shot.

So many generations, lad, so many eons in the void. Now I have form. Now I live.

The storm came immediately, a resonant peal of thunder and a warm wind that blew through the swamp cypress like the foul stench of decay. The stagnant pools of water stirred and trembled while high in the lofts of the trees, a flock of crows shrieked in terror. The skies were soon dark with fluttering wings, beating against a gale that had suddenly risen.

And deep in a tiny hollow in the swamp, where the pine and oak trees groaned in the wind, a solitary man stood amid a pile of rubble, laughing and dancing an old sailor's jig.
PART ONE: AUGUST 1975

Chapter 1

1.

The Reverend Jimmy Doohan Holcomb had his usual after-lunch headache and told himself quietly that he would simply have to give up the gin and steak on days like this. He winced a bit as another throb hit but managed to keep up a professionally somber appearance for the family's sake. Not many this time, he thought, looking over the group. Ten minutes for the service, a few more for the consolation. Then it's back to that office, that wonderful, icy cold office.

It was always hot in Savannah in August but that summer in 1975, the heat was ferocious and Holcomb could hardly blame the gravediggers for choosing to stay inside the mausoleum un- til after the burial. It was better for the family too and Holcomb was annoyed with himself for wishing he were with them. "Would you care to be seated here, ma'am?" he asked. A tall dark-skinned woman wearing big round sunglasses nodded and placed herself in one of the metal folding chairs beside the grave.

There were two other women, one middle-aged with a hefty build and mannish voice--she fidgeted constantly with a paper fan--and the other considerably older, of olive complexion. slender with her hands clasped in a firm prayerful pose. Holcomb knew from her expression that she was a regular church-goer. He swallowed and ran a finger across his brow, to remove a line of sweat that was hanging there. There was one other person beneath the canopy that shaded them from the torrid sun. Holcomb looked questioningly in his direction but Alex Perry shook his head.

"I'll stand, thank you, Reverend."

"Very well. I think we're ready to begin now." He swallowed again, tasting the furry residue of his lunch. Beyond the canopy, the pines and palmettoes of Hillcrest Cemetery wavered in the heat, while just behind them, a tabby walkway shone a blistering white, its shell and rook fragments reflecting off Bette Perry's sunglasses.

Holcomb opened the book and cleared his throat.

"Father, we gather to commend the spirit of Lucille Donellan Perry into Thy hands.

"The forgiveness and mercy of the Lord know no bounds.

"Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth; Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them.

"The Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away: blessed be the

name of the Lord."

To Alex, the Reverend's words were no more than a distant din. His grandmother had died two days before, on Wednesday, at the age of 93, half mad and ravaged by illnesses he couldn't even pronounce. It was a peaceful death for her, Dr. Sarkis had told him. "She was suffering, so it's better this way."

Still, Alex wondered. Illness and insanity had dogged her since 1947, yet she was the toughest old woman he had ever known. It wasn't like her to give up life so easily. In her final hours, Rita and her nurses both said she had spoken constantly of losing, of failure and fate and of wishing for another chance. It must have been terrible.

He couldn't help noticing how pale and distraught Rita looked. That was understandable; she had been Lucille's house keeper and nurse for twenty-eight years. But he had never seen her look like this. She was taking it harder than any of them. Gently, Alex laid a hand on her shoulder, only to startle her, and momentarily distract Rev. Holcomb from his reading.

Holcomb smiled sympathetically at them and went on.

"The Apostle Paul provides us with some words of meaning:

"That which thou sowest is not quickened except that it die: and that which thou sowest, thou sowest not the body that shall be, but a bare grain, it may chance of wheat, or of some other grain, but God giveth it a body as it hath pleased Him...So also is the resurrection of the dead. It is sown in corruption; it is raised in incorruption; it is sown in dishonor; it is raised in glory; it is sown in weakness; it is raised in power; it is sown a natural body; it is raised a spiritual body.'

"I,ucille was a kind and generous woman, full of love and tender mercy for those who suffer. She often spoke to me of the Psalms, and in particular of the 5lst and 32nd. Let us pray with her:

'Have mercy on me, O God. according to thy loving kindness; according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies, blot out my transgressions.

'Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin.

'For I acknowledge my transgressions and my sin is ever before me.

"Against thee, thee only, have I sinned, and done this evil in thy sight, that thou mightest be justified when thou speakest, and be clear when thou judgest.'"

Holcomb flipped a few pages, pausing only to daub some sweat from his lips and eyes with his thumb.

"'Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered.

'I acknowledge my sin unto thee and mine iniquity have I not hid. I said, I will confess my transgressions unto the Lord; and thou forgavest the iniquity of my sin.'

"Amen.''

Alex placed his other hand on Rita's shoulders and tried to quietly comfort her. He could feel the sobs shaking her body though she managed to keep them low and hushed. Bette and Grace stared at the aluminum casket, now draped with roses and chrysanthemums, with stony silence.

Rev. Holcomb extracted a wrinkled sheet of paper from a pocket and said, "I should like to end with a few words which I believe best express our feelings today.

'Now the laborer's task is o'er!

Now the battle day is past!

Now upon the farther shore

Lands the voyager at last.

Father, in thy gracious keeping

Leave we now thy servant sleeping. '

"Let us pray.

"Thy love is everlasting, O Lord, for all the sheep of Thy flock. Give thee this family comfort and take unto Thy infinite heart the immortal soul of this Thy loyal servant.

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.

"Amen."

"Amen," said the others, and Holcomb looked up, scanning their faces, nodding slightly at each as he caught their eyes. Not much grief, except for Miss Donze, he thought. I guess it's too hot for that. He could feel his suit clinging to his back and decided it would be better to console the family in its moment of grief inside the mausoleum, where the air-conditioning was going full blast.

Bette and Grace needed no gentle prodding to get up but Rita dropped to her knees and reached out with a shaking hand to touch the edge of the casket. For a second, Alex was afraid that she would faint before her fingers could touch it. But she gripped the metal for a moment. whispering something that Alex couldn't quite catch, then abruptly stood up. He expected to see tears streaming down her cheeks but instead, Rita's face had turned darkly grim. She was dry-eyed as she stared back at all of them.

"I think we'd best let the men get to work." Holcomb suggested. He motioned up the low hill, where the baroque stone mausoleum sat.

Alex came around the edge of the canopy and gripped the man's hands. "Thank you. Reverend, I think my grandmother would have been pleased with the service.''

Holcomb let a smile out. "She was a wonderful woman, Mr. Perry. And she lived a long life. She'll be happy now. Is there anything I can do for the family? If there is, please let me know."

"No. I can't think of anything right now." He pulled out a handkerchief and rubbed some sweat off his face and glasses. The sun was uncomfortably warm on his head and he stepped back under the canopy for some shade. Behind him, the gravediggers were already lowering the casket into the ground--Alex winced as the pulleys squeaked under their load. "Well, maybe there is one thing, Reverend. Just a small thing."

"Yes?"

"You were pretty close to Mrs. Perry, weren't you? I mean, I know she didn't go to church all that often but you--"

"I knew her well." Holcomb replied. "She was a member of the congregation for many years."

"Then you know she was a little...you know, not quite there at times, too?"

Holcomb let his smile fade ever so slowly. It was getting harder to keep it up when he felt like melting. "I was aware of her unfortunate condition, yes."

Maybe I'm wrong, Alex thought. It was so long ago. What, fifteen years at least? Seems longer... "I was wondering... you saw her Wednesday morning? Before she died?"

"Just a few hours before, I'm told."

Alex felt vaguely uncomfortable asking, the way a child feels when being scolded for venturing into forbidden places.

"Did Mrs. Perry tell you...did she say anything to you then? Anything...well, unusual?"

It was an odd question but Holcomb knew that grieving relatives often made strange requests. He had learned it was always best to honor them.

"Mrs. Perry said many things when I was in the room but unfortunately I wasn't able to understand much of it. She could barely open her mouth after the stroke, you know. Miss Donze

helped me to understand."

"Rita was there."

"Yes. She was able to indicate Mrs. Perry's wishes. Thank the Lord for that."

Alex's shoulders dropped and his lips tightened perceptibly.

If Rita was there.... "Thanks so much, Reverend Holcomb. I appreciate your being here. It means a lot to the family."

Holcomb nodded and shook Alex's hand firmly. "God bless you and keep you well, son. Do you want to go up to the mausoleum? It's quite lovely inside and much cooler, if you don't mind my saying so."

"No, I think it would be better if I took them back to the motel. We've still got to see about Grandmother's effects and it would be better to get on with it."

"Of course."

They moved aside to let the men finish filling in the hole. The sound of dirt clods rattling on top of the casket made Alex uneasy and he had no wish to watch as they sodded the grave with big slabs of grass when they were done. He shook hands with the Reverend one more time, then left, heading for the car parked at the edge of the mausoleum's cobblestone driveway. The women waited for him beside the car, huddled in the shade of a grove of pine trees, fanning themselves vigorously.

"Let's go," said Grace, stepping over to the car door. "We're all about to wilt out here." She yanked open the rear door and wriggled herself into the back seat. "Turn that air on before I drown in my own sweat."

Alex grimaced as he held the door for Rita. He supposed that if you asked him the right way, whispering it behind locked doors in some vacant house deep in the woods, he would probably admit to loving his sister, or at least liking her sometimes. She had always been protective of him, possessive too, the way you'd hold onto a comfortable old coat. Bette despised her for that but Alex was just too close to her to stay mad very long. She was the kind of woman who could make you feel guilty just to be alive. It was that look--the set mouth, the disdainful eyes and big sigh that always infuriated, exasperated and eventually overcame Alex. "Somehow," he would say to Bette, trying to explain it, "it's the way she drops her shoulders. That slight quiver in her lips, like she's about to cry all the time. She reminds me of an old faithful dog who's just been swatted with the newspaper for pooping on the rug."

It made Bette want to scream.

I ought to keep the air conditioner off just to make her suffer. He would have too, if he hadn't been so sticky and miserable himself.

He turned the car around and drove at a respectable speed back down the long palm-tree lined driveway, toward the entrance. They passed the big stone gate, with its sculpted sign saying HILLCREST CEMETERY, and pulled out onto Wheaton Street, going north. Innecken's Floral Center was just around the corner and Bette made some comment about the arrangements at the funeral service and burial. Alex didn't hear it. He was thinking about something else.

They were quiet until Don's Handy Pantry had gone by and the Liberty Street railyards were coming up. Traffic was heavy going into town and Alex had to slow down considerably.

Alex broke the silence. "Rita, would you like to have dinner with us at the hotel? You ought to eat something before we head over to Grandmother's house."

Rita was staring vacantly out the window. watching the grimy frame houses crawl by. Her voice was low and thick. "No, I don't think so, Alex. Thank you for asking, though." She sighed. "There are some things I want to do before you come over anyway. Just drop me off at my car and I'll see you later."

"Honey, we could do it tomorrow," said Bette. She finally took off her sunglasses. rubbed her eyes a bit and then put on her other glasses, the ones with the smoky tint to them. "We're all tired and irritable. The room's reserved through Saturday anyway. ''

Alex knew it was the sensible thing to do but the thought of Rita alone in that house, without Grandmother to occupy her disturbed him. He knew it was silly--Rita had lived there for years but he couldn't help it. He couldn't forget what had happened that summer of 1960. And he was reasonably sure that Rita hadn't either.

They were stuck in Friday afternoon traffic for nearly half an hour--some of it headed west and north toward Hilton Head, the rest toward Savannah Beach and the Islands. It was approaching four o'clock when Alex pulled into the Travelodge parking lot. They got out into the stifling heat and stretched.

Alex yawned and massaged his eyes. Bette fastened her hands around his neck and rubbed the muscles vigorously.

"That feel better?"

"A lot." He squinted in Rita's direction. "You're sure you'll be all right? I don't want you to feel alone in that house tonight."

Rita seemed distracted, watching two panel trucks race each other down Broad Street. She was an ascetic woman, quiet, a little arrogant and her straight black hair and mystic's eyes gave her a tragic yet sensual appearance.

She answered without taking her eyes off the stream of traffic. "Alex, don't worry so about me. I'll be fine. It's just that I want to make my peace with that house."

Alex took her hand and squeezed it. "I understand. But you'll call if you need anything?"

She raised his hand to her lips and kissed it delicately.

"Of course. Will you come at ten tomorrow morning?"

Alex glanced at his wife, who nodded. Grace gave her assent too. "Ten on the nose." She started to leave, but Alex didn't let her hand go at once. "And don't worry about anything, okay?"

She got into her own car, a gray mid-60's Ford, and started it up. She was out of the parking lot and accelerating across three lanes of traffic a minute later.

Alex waited until she made the turn onto Oglethorpe, then said. "Let's go get something to eat, girls."

Grace yawned wide and muttered, "Not for me, Alex, dear. I think I'll take a little nap first. I'm beat."

Bette breathed a silent 'thank you' while Alex replied, "Suit yourself. But be ready by nine tomorrow morning. You know what room we're in?"

"I'll find it," she said. "Nitey-nite, you two." And she trudged up the stairs to Room 27, a few doors up and over from theirs.

"I hate that woman." said Bette. She put an arm around Alex's waist. "I can't help it but I do."

"She's harmless for a sister. Just ignore her." Alex locked the car. .'Come on. Why don't you buy me a steak at the Holiday Inn? The walk'll do us good."

2.

They ate in silence, chewing on tough, undercooked sirloin but grateful for the cold blast of the air conditioner above them and the frequent refills of iced tea the waitress offered.

For the first time since they had driven down from Scotland Lake, Alex felt depressed at Lucille's death. They hadn't been close--how could they have been when Emily refused to admit that side of the family even existed--but despite that, he felt a part of the woman. There was no explaining it and God knows he had tried hard enough. There was a feeling about her, some-thing almost tangible, like a rope pulling at him. It scared Rita and Emily both that summer and that's why his mother had never brought them back to that house in Savannah.

They finished dinner in silence and paid the bill. The walk back up Oglethorpe to their motel took ten minutes and, in that time, Bette sensed something was bothering her husband, something more than the funeral, much more. They stopped at the office, to change some bills into coins, then made a trip to the vending machines. Alex got a Coke, Bette a Tab, and they went to the room.

It was just after seven and the bed seemed awfully inviting. Alex switched on the TV and lay his head back on the cushion, watching Bob Barker and The Price is Right. Bette snuggled up next to him, sipping her Tab, shoes off and wearing her light blue robe. The TV droned on hypnotically and in the deliciously cool air of the room, she soon drifted off to sleep.

She thought she had only dozed for a few minutes but the TV voice was different now, not Bob Barker at all. She blinked and kneaded the sleep out of her eyes, squinting at the portable alarm clock on the table. It read twenty minutes to 10.

Alex was up. He had turned the lights off, except for the bathroom and was quickly and silently changing into a pair of white slacks by the cold light. Bette held up a hand to shield her eyes from the glow.

"Honey?" She sat up in bed and shook the hair out of her eyes. "Alex? Where are you going?"

He didn't reply at once and Bette could see in the shadowed furrows on his face a determined stare that worried her. He yanked on a black T-shirt and belt.

"Alex?"

"I'm going over to Grandmother's house...to keep Rita company. She needs me and I think she's just too proud to admit it."

"Now?" Bette rolled out of bed and stood in front of her husband, helping him straighten his shirt out. "Do you have to? She'll be all right, won't she?"

Alex took her face in his hands and kissed it a few times. "I have to do this. It's important."

"If it's that important, maybe I should go too."

"No," he told her. "Stay here and get some sleep. It's better if I go alone. Okay?" He kissed her again.

''I suppose."

Alex pulled on his shoes and stuffed his car keys, wallet and change into his pocket. He went to the door, stopped, and took out some coins, tossing them on the bed at his wife. "Buy yourself a Mars bar while I'm gone."

"Thanks a lot."

"And Bette, please don't tell Grace where I've gone."

Before she could say another word, he had opened the door and slipped out.

3.

Lucille Perry's house was dark when Alex stopped by the curb and cut the engine. He looked at his watch: a little after 10 P.M.

Rita must be as tired as any of us. She ought to be asleep.

He got out of the car and shut the door slowly, letting it latch with as little noise as possible. The street was deserted except for a few cats prowling the sidewalk. One of them, a black and white tabby, stopped by the car and glared up at him, eyes gleaming yellow-green in the light of the streetlamp.

Alex opened the wrought-iron gate and walked the twenty paces up the brick walkway to the front steps. He stopped there, listening, for what he wasn't sure.

It was a three-story affair, Lucille's house. A Georgian row house, built in the latter 19th century. There was a small balcony at the third floor, opening onto the master bedroom, his grandmother's since 1932. Ornate black wrought-iron trim. Brass dolphin-shaped rain spouts. Massive bay windows by the steep front stairs. The stonework had been painted recently-- by the light of the streetlamp, it was a dull, lifeless gray. He listened again.

Nothing. Nothing but the faint gurgling of the creek-canal behind the block. The sound was the same as it had been, fifteen years before.

Alex had a key of his own, that Rita had given him and he used it now. The door was a sturdy oak slab but it opened easily and Alex stepped into the dim candlelight of the foyer. He shut the door carefully and a rush of memories came flooding back.

He shuddered and felt his way to the banister of the stairs. Its heavily lacquered post was a welcome sensation in his hands and he rubbed a little sweat off on the wood.

Rita would be upstairs.

The wood groaned a bit under his weight but Alex didn't stop. He held his breath at the top--a faint murmur could be heard. To the left. He stared for a moment at the double doors shut tight at the end of the hall. The nautical design carved into the face of the door was invisible in the darkness but he could still see it nonetheless. In his mind. It was the shipwreck and serpent's head crest that had once frightened him so badly. He could laugh at it now, all these years later but back then, it hadn't been so funny. Even Grace admitted that the red-daubed reptilian eyes and flaring nostrils of the monster gave her goose bumps.

But Alex didn't venture into that pool of black at the end of the hall. Instead, he moved cautiously into the short hall at his left. The murmuring grew louder. Rita's room was dark. Alex placed his fingers around the door knob and gently nudged the door back. Through the crack, a faint shaft of light from the high window cast a twilight pall on everything in the room. He moved the door back another inch and saw a hand and arm, draped limply across the edge of the bed.

Thank God, she's asleep.

Alex listened. The murmur was a voice, an indistinct whisper issuing from the pale amber face of a clock radio on the nightstand.

He breathed a little more easily and yet felt vaguely disappointed too. He had come here not knowing what he expected, a feeling perhaps, a freshening of the memory of that terrifying yet captivating night in the fetid sewage pipes under the back yard. It was fifteen years ago and could have been fifteen centuries in a way. Grace would not speak of what they had seen anymore, at the end of that pipe, behind the iron door of the cellar. He was no longer even sure it had happened. Time was a trickster when you got a few years on you; it reshuffled memories like a deck of hot cards.

Alex eased the door shut and felt like the prize fool of the day.

The funeral's got us all cracked.

It was somewhere near the bottom of the stairs, along about where the great picture of his gaunt, sour-faced grandfather Jacob would have been, that Alex heard it.

He stopped immediately, his left foot inches from the floor beyond the last step. It was what he had been expecting, what he had been hoping for, and fearing. What he knew had to come.

The low growl returned.

Alex caught hold of the banister to steady himself. He hadn't the slightest doubt that he would investigate the sound. And he didn't even have to listen--though it came again—to know where it came from. But he took a moment to collect his wits, to get a breath and calm his racing heart. A rush of blood made his face hot and flushed. He found himself standing before the cellar door with no memory of having moved a muscle. The brass knob was cold to the touch.

He opened it.

There was a string dangling in his face and he pulled it. Instantly, a single 60-watt bulb on the wall flooded the wooden stairs with light. The steps were black and splintery with age, disappearing into the well of darkness at the bottom. Alex stepped through and descended, his left hand squeezing the balustrade tightly.

At the bottom, his loafers made a reassuring thump on the cement. He stood still and listened, not daring to move, even to blink, until he was sure.

The rattle and hiss of labored breathing swelled in his ear.

He turned around and stared hard into the musty depths of the basement. At the limit of vision, he could see the cement ended in a ragged line, running off into a dark brown bed of dirt. As he followed the edge further around to his left, his eye was attracted to the dull sheen of something metal, a post it seemed from where he was. A column.

He felt his mouth dry up as a human-like shape shifted slightly, silhouetted in the glimmer of that post.

Another growl, this time deeper, with volume.

Alex paced forward, a step at a time, his skin tingling. His eyes never left that shape and, as he stared with mounting horror, it moved again. The growl softened into a voice, recognizably human, almost a whine.

He was at the edge of the cement now, his shoes poised above the dirt. He took another step.

The thing jerked violently and a sharp clank rattled through the cellar. Alex froze and veered sideways, along the edge of the cement, unwilling to approach until he could see it better.

He realized that his own shadow was blocking the light from the bulb by the stairs.

He bumped into another post and hurt his shoulder. Rubbing it, he took a step forward, letting his foot find purchase in the loose dirt.

Suddenly, the thing charged him.

Alex couldn't move. His muscles failed him and he stood stiff and still, blood roaring in his ears.

The thing burst into the tiny pool of illumination and squatted in the dirt on its haunches, unable to come any closer.

He could now see the dull glint of metal that had first gotten his eye—manacles. It was manacled to a post by the far wall.

And the face! Alex turned his head involuntarily and fought back a wave of nausea.

It was human, he saw. Or at least, had been at one time. Maybe four feet in height, almost as wide around, the creature had no arms, merely scarred stumps of pale, shriveled tissue.

The thing did have legs but they were gnarled, misshapen skeletal bones, blood-encrusted and covered with fiery red pustules and sores.

The worst part was the face. What eyes it had were no more than pinpricks, scabbed over and surrounded with a thick webbing of scar tissue. Even as he watched, the beast gouged at its face, opening a wound which dribbled fluid freely. Its nose was sunken back into the skull and its mouth was sealed partly shut with gray, fungus-like skin growth and more scar tissue.

The whole effect was that of a decaying skeleton or some kind of hideous caricature of a large human fetus. Blood veins stood out clearly at or near its skin, especially around the tiny eyes. Many of them were burst, giving its face a cruel blotchy look. Its skin was otherwise a waxy yellow, where it was visible through the gray crusty mold at all and its legs were smeared with foul-smelling dung. Alex couldn't bring himself to look at the thing for more than a few seconds at a time. His mind railed from the thought that it might be human.

Yet it was. Once.

His grandmother had often entertained him. in her rare moments of sanity, with stories of some mythical monster which she called "Billy." Rita smiled at these fables; "she imagines him to keep her company" was what the Dominican woman always said. He shivered remembering those tales, stories of chimeras and serpents and moles and succubi, haunting her attic and cellar, scuttling about the house inside the walls, ready to pounce on misbehaving little children. She had spoken of "Billy" in a special way, though, almost like a long lost but not forgotten child, like a pet she had once loved but had to put to death. It was all very real and believable to Alex, at that young and suggestible age, but Rita would scoff at the very idea and warn him to think no more of it, "or you should have terrible, terrible nightmares, and be like Mrs. Perry when she's naughty." Alex didn't want that at all; when Grandmother was naughty, she screamed the vilest obscenities you could imagine and it was all Rita would do to strap her into bed.

The neighbors didn't believe in "Billy" either. Alex found out. Mrs. Hutchins, two units down, would always remove her spectacles and rub them endlessly with a coarse white cloth, smiling sympathetically when the question was put to her. "Billy?" she would ask in that sing-song lilt that always made him want to snicker. "Oh, my yes, we all know 'Billy around here. "Billy' is your grandma's best friend, you know. And such a thoughtful boy," she would add. with a big wink and a gravelly chuckle.

So "Billy" was something out of Grandmother's imagination, huh?

Alex swallowed a rising stream of vomit and forced himself to study the poor thing.

It sat like a child by the edge of the cement, at the limit of a chain around its right leg, playing eagerly in the dirt and small piles of its own excrement. Every so often, among the growls and squeaks that it made, Alex could imagine that he heard a recognizable word, though it always eluded him. It was clearly retarded, he could see that right away. And to live in such filth ....

It was sickening to look at but he knew there was only one thing he could do. If this was "Billy, then Rita should be told at once. Or better yet, why not at least release the thing--the child, he told himself, for that was what he decided it had to be--from its chains? The only question was, where could he find the key? Was there a key at all?

Quickly, he went back to the stairs and bounded up into the pantry. He paused, looking around at all the pots and pans dangling from ceiling hooks. The shelves were still well stocked with canned goods. Rita was a meticulous and efficient woman and she had run the house for the better part of three decades. He banged his head on a black iron kettle and swore. There was no telling where Rita usually put the housekeys. He thought of going upstairs and waking her to find out but decided that she needed her rest. It had been a tough day for all of them.

Think now, you can find it.

He started rummaging through cans of tomatoes and corn and peas and dried apricots, knocking a few off. At one end of the shelf, a neatly stacked triangle of Stokeley's Asparagus Tips and Van Camp's Baked Beans was arranged. On the shelf below were green beans and a bin of potatoes.

Where the hell would someone like Rita put the housekeys?

From memory, he was fairly certain that they were always kept in or around the pantry-kitchen area. He stopped for a moment, puzzled, and studied the walls carefully.

There! Right beside the fly swatter and a well-worn push broom. Hanging on a slightly bent nail was a big brass ring full of keys.

Alex snatched it down.

He went back into the cellar. At the bottom of the stairs, he looked for "Billy", or whoever it was, and saw him groveling in the mud and shit at the base of the post nearest the cement. Alex took a deep breath, patted his rumbling gut with a shaking hand and stopped forward as deliberately as he could.

"Billy" saw him and sat up, swaying slightly. He grunted some kind of question that Alex couldn't understand. When it was apparent that this time, Alex would come within the perimeter of his chain, he began to slobber and gurgle happily. Awkwardly, he staggered up onto the stumps of his legs, steadying himself by the post, and tugged furiously at the chain, spraying dirt and blood and God knew what else everywhere. Alex stopped for a moment, sucking up what little nerve he had left.

He's the most goddamned repulsive thing I've ever seen.

Still, he couldn't stop now. He meant to free "Billy" and get him to a hospital, then come back and drag the truth out of Rita. What they had done was criminal, at the very least. The most dangerous zoo animals were treated better than this.

Alex took the last few steps with his eyes closed. His arm brushed "Billy's'' face and he shuddered at the warm trickle of fluid that clung to the hairs. He clenched his teeth, unable to bear more than an occasional glance upward, into that pus-covered, starkly veined face. He reached down for the shackle and began trying keys, praying he would find the right one before he spewed his guts all over the ground. The fifth key fit perfectly and he twisted it hard, for the lock had rust and hard dirt packed into it.

The ring popped open with a clatter and fell into the dirt.

At that moment. Alex became suddenly aware of how quiet deathly quiet "Billy" had suddenly become. No more slobbering, no more grunting and gurgling and growling. The hairs on his neck prickled and he stood slowly up.

"Billy's" expression had changed. Incredibly, the eyes had grown larger, they had burst open the scabbing and gleamed at him through steadily pulsing streams of blood now dribbling down his face.

His mouth then opened and Alex saw a writhing mass of wormy flesh inside. "Billy" spat it out viciously, then uttered a high, hoarse wail of a laugh. His breath was overpowering and Alex gagged on the nauseating stench, falling backwards. He clawed the bloody flesh of "Billy's" tongue out of his eyes.

But before he could get away, "Billy" was stumbling, pitching forward, off balance and lunging at him. Alex wanted to run, he wanted to dig a deep hole in the dirt and crawl into it to get away from this nightmare. He wanted to scream and faint and smash a rock into that hideous, decaying face.

But he did nothing.

"Billy" staggered and fell and Alex reached out to catch him, holding his breath and screwing his eyes shut. He cringed as the slick soft flesh pressed in on his chest.

At the instant of contact. a terrific, shattering explosion ripped the very breath out of him. He was flung backward and the sensation was pleasant for awhile until his brief flight was rudely interrupted by an iron post.

The impact crushed the very thought out of him and he gladly succumbed to that deep, inviting hole of unconsciousness.
Chapter 2

  1.

Bette Perry had spent the night in an auxiliary waiting room behind the vending machines. The coffee in the cafeteria at Memorial Medical Center tasted like sweet tar and she found the machine-made product more palatable. She was thankful that Alex's sister Grace was a nervous woman; she had spent the night pacing the carpeted hallways of the hospital, waiting for some word out of Intensive Care. Not that Bette got any sleep. But at least she didn't have to spend any more time in the woman's company than necessary.

Now they were sitting quietly on the cold leather sofa by the door, sipping coffee and trying to find something pleasant to say. Grace's dusty blond hair was a mess and she made a perfunctory attempt to straighten it out while holding the end of a half-eaten peanut butter cracker in her mouth.

Bette finished off the dregs of her coffee and stubbed out her third Winston since she had woken up.

Lord knows what my hair looks like.

"Any word?"

Grace looked up from the mirror in her compact and sniffed indignantly. Her eyes were watery and red. "Nothing. I can't even get the nurses to go ask." She poked the rest of the cracker into her mouth and licked her fingertip. "Sharon, up at the desk, says Dr. Matrangos will be out soon."

"I feel awful," Bette said. She stood up and stretched, flinching as a muscle in her shoulder protested the move.

"They ought to be more cooperative, you know."

"I know. God, I'm bushed."

"Why don't you lie down on the sofa? You must have walked a hundred miles last night."

Grace shook her head and sank back against the cushion. "I can't sleep. Alex and I have been real close for a long time." She closed her eyes and yawned. "Whenever he's been hurt, or sick, I had to be there."

Bette snorted silently. ''Mothering him."

Grace's eyes flicked open and narrowed, as they followed Bette over to the vending machine. She waited until Bette had dropped in another fifty cents and taken the first bitter sip of that wretched coffee before speaking up.

"Look, dear, I know you don't exactly think I'm God's gift to earth, but I know what Alex needs. And wants. I think I'm a lot more knowledgeable about him than you'll ever be."

Bette smiled in spite of herself. Everybody has to have someone to feel superior to. And it's so easy when your competition is an ugly fat bitch. She congratulated herself for fighting off the impulse to be vindictive. "I think I'll wander up the hall and see if Sharon has any news. It's a bit stuffy in here." But the door opened before she could reach it. Two men came in, followed by the head nurse of the watch. Behind her was Rita Donze, her forehead heavily bandaged.

Dr. Philip Matrangos smoothed back the remaining tufts of white hair behind his ears and licked his lips. Underneath his black beard and moustache, his lips looked like a red knife- wound.

"Mrs. Perry--" he looked from Grace to Bette and back again. "Mrs. Luce?"

"Yes?" Grace stood up abruptly.

Matrangos' eyelids twitched as he talked. "Well, I think Alex is going to be all right. I was concerned at the outset over the possibility of internal injuries. That`s why we took all those precautions."

Grace and Bette spoke at the same time, but Bette's fierce glance won out. "Is there a concussion? You said--"

Matrangos held up a hand. "One at a time. please. Yes, he does have a slight concussion. There were some skull contusions from the impact and an EEC confined some shock to his mind. However, the lumbar puncture and pneumoencephalogram were negative and I think he'll recover from it in a few weeks. There will be some headaches and vertigo, though, as well as pre- and post-traumatic amnesia."

Bette watched Rita. She swayed unsteadily and looked to be near to fainting. She had bruises on both arms and a row of stitches extending from the comer of her mouth. Bette felt sorry for her; she was determined to maintain a little dignity even when injured.

"Anything else?" Grace asked.

"Yes, he has a separated shoulder. Actually, it isn't too bad—there's some stretching of the glenohumeral ligaments. It could have been a lot worse, believe me. But he'll have to wear a sling for awhile."

The other man who had come in with Matrangos now cleared his throat. He was a huge rock of a man, massive shoulders and face, with dense black hair on the backs of his hands. He straightened up a bit and sucked in a beer lover's belly as the doctor introduced him.

"Oh, yes, pardon me. This is Lieutenant Singleton. Savannah Police Department. He's investigating the explosion."

"Was that what it was?" Bette asked. "An explosion?"

Singleton let his eyes wander up and down her figure before answering. Bette refused to blush, or blink, and glared back at him. "We think so, ma'am. Mrs. Perry's corner unit was demolished, of course. There was extensive structural damage to the Paulus and Hutchins homes too, though I think they're salvageable. We found the brickwork and masonry in the foundation of the Paulus apartment pretty much gone--my guess is that the center of the explosion was in the cellar of the Perry place."

"What could have caused it?"

Rita shifted uncomfortably at the question but Singleton didn't notice. "Hard to say exactly. We found the debris of a gas-fired furnace along the wall adjacent to the firewall between the units. For now, the official explanation is a natural gas leak." He turned to Rita. "You're a very lucky lady, Miss. Mr. Perry too. The whole place caved in like an erector set. Can't figure out how either of you survived with all that rubble raining down."

Singleton shook his head and unwrapped a piece of chewing gun while Matrangos added a warning. "I want you both to understand that we'll have to keep Alex here for another week to ten days. For observation. There's still a few tests I need to run. He doesn't appear to have sustained any permanent damage to his brain but I'd like to be sure." He studied both Grace and Bette with an inquisitive frown.

"You can't be too careful," said Grace. "Since Mom died, he's never taken proper care of himself."

"Can we see him now?" asked Bette.

Matrangos nodded. "Sure. You know the room. Just don't stay with him too long. He needs the rest.''

They found Alex propped up on a stack of magazines, distractedly thumbing through one issue of TIME after another. He brightened and tried to smile when he saw Bette. She bent to kiss him.

"God, what kind of pills have they been giving you, Alex?" She wrinkled her nose and backed away. "That smells like sewage. "

Alex made a pout. "Here I am at death's door and you're telling me I have bad breath." He reached out and squeezed his sister's hand too.

Grace touched his forehead lightly. "Your forehead's cool. How do you feel?"

Alex pushed his stack of magazines away. He yawned and stretched. "You want to know the truth?"

"No, I want you to lie to me."

"Smart-ass. I'm kind of restless, actually. I want to go."

Bette plunked herself down on the bed, by his feet, ignoring Grace altogether. "Doc says you got to stay and sample the food for a week to ten days. He's got a new cuisine he wants to try out on you."

Alex stuck out his tongue, and promptly pulled it back in when Bette tried to grab it. They both laughed. "I believe it. Have you seen what they feed you around here?"

"Mystery meat and salad surprise?"

"You're funny, lady." He spied Rita hovering in the background, staring at him with a mixture of concern and dread. Her eyes were wide.

"What is it, Rita? My breath can't be that bad."

Her face had hardened into a mask of loathing and fear.

Bette noticed she was shaking and tried to put a hand on her shoulder, but Rita twisted away, her eyes never leaving Alex.

"Rita! "

"What's wrong, Rita? Are you sick?''

She shook her head vigorously, fighting off Grace's efforts to take hold of her wrists. "N-n-no, senor! You can't...I'm not too well...please!" She wrung her hands loose from Grace. "Please! I go...the insurance man is waiting for me. I am...okay, please." She whirled about and fumbled with the door knob before jerking it open. The door banged off the stop and nearly latched to before Grace could get to it. She stepped out into the hall and watched Rita flee down toward the elevators, her white smock streaming behind like a cape. Several nurses and an orderly tried to stop her but she brushed by all of them. When she turned the comer, Grace clucked to herself and came back into the room.

"Rita's acting queerly today." She closed the door.

Alex nodded, surprised at himself for feeling angry over the incident. It wasn't like her at all. Usually, she was the picture of decorum and--"Well," he muttered, "she was in the same accident I was. She's probably upset.''

Bette patted his hand. "She ought to be. Doc said you were both lucky."

"Yeah," Alex replied, absent-mindedly. He crossed his arms and settled back into the pillow. The walls of the room were a bare pastel blue, unadorned except for the TV rack and a perfectly awful oil painting of some forest scene. Alex watched the picture for a moment, then shook his head. If he tried hard enough, he could make out the gruesome face of "Billy" in along the branches and daffodils. That's over with, he told himself firmly. I'm too old for bogeymen.

A soft hand on his cheek startled him. He blinked for a minute, then tried to laugh off his fright.

"You were frowning," said Bette. She ran her fingers along the ridge of his nose and under his chin, eventually provoking a grin. "Do you hurt anywhere?"

He shook his head and placed his own hand over hers. "Just homesick, I guess. You talked to Miss Littleton today?"

"Mm-hmm. Last night, about ten. She said the kids are doing fine without us. Marcy begged her to go ahead and do some school shopping yesterday afternoon at the store. She let her get a spiral notebook and a pack of different color pencils and... um, a lunchbox with the Bionic Woman on it."

Alex groaned. "I'm glad that's all. I guess she's pretty anxious to start, huh?"

"Miss Littleton thinks she'll be a doll."

Grace interrupted. "How old is she, Alex?"

"Marcy's five."

Bette explained. "We're starting her in kindergarten this year. Edna Littleton runs a place called Kindertown, on Wickham Road. You remember it, don't you? The old Bowden house, right there at Cowles Road."

"Honey, I haven't been to the Lake since Ernest finished up that haunted house for the Stockers. You sure this place is for real? What I've heard about day-care centers lately--"

"Oh, no, this is strictly legal, everything open and accounted for. Miss Littleton used to teach English at Appalachian County High. How many years, dear?"

Alex shrugged. "Plenty, I know that. We don't worry about her though. She's been around Scotland Lake for centuries.''

"You two like that place?"

"Scotland Lake?" Bette fished out a cigarette and lit it, taking a deep, luxurious drag. She blew smoke from her nose and nodded. "Yeah, we like it. The people are nice once you meet them. It's like most small towns, you know. Kind of in-bred and standoffish, that sort of thing. But we're settling in. Especially with Marcy going off to kindergarten this year." She squeezed Alex's knee. "Miss Littleton said Jimmy's having a fit that he can't start there this year too."

Alex chuckled. "He ought to enjoy his freedom while he can. ''

Grace talked awhile longer, then stood up and came over to give her brother a big fat kiss, right in front of Bette.

She lingered over his face for a moment, rubbing noses and wishing to God she had eyes in the back of her head so she could get Bette's reaction. You're a sweet boy, brother-of-mine, but your wife is a skinny little snot. She straightened up and felt great when she caught Bette glowering at her.

"You take care of yourself now," she told Alex.

"I'll probably die without you.''

"I know but that husband of mine can't feed himself anything better than peanut butter sandwiches so I'd better get back to the big city. I don't need two casualties." She fluffed up her hair and shook it. "Why don't you two come down to Atlanta some weekend. Ernest built himself a whole new garage behind the house and he's planning on finishing off the rest of the attic and making it into some kind of entertainment room. He's into all that stereo and video business now. Buys something new every week. Now he wants a new room to store it."

"We'll get down, sometime," Alex promised her. "Tell Ernest I may have a little project for him around our house."

Grace snickered. "Oh, Lord, he'd love that."

"Hey--"

"Yeah?"

Alex levelled a mean look at his sister. "Let's don't wait till the next funeral to see each other. Okay?''

Grace swallowed hard. "Right." She opened the door and stood in the hall, looking back at him. She was only thirty but it hurt to see the gray strands of hair she hadn't quite succeeded in covering up. He wondered if she really would finally settle down with Ernest now. "Bye-bye." She was gone a second later.

Bette flopped back on the bed at Alex's feet and sighed long and loud. "Now I got you all to myself."

Alex reluctantly let his eyes leave the door. "You mean I'm a prisoner?"

Bette rolled over and kissed him on the chest, twirling her hand through the black hair. "For life, mister." She wriggled up to meet his face and was about to try on another kiss, when a pair of firm knocks on the door stopped her.

It was Sharon, the nurse. ''Sorry, you two, but it's time for Alex to give us a sample." She smiled, then laughed at the look on Bette's face and held up a small jar.

"Oh," said Bette, and she sat up, throwing her hair back. "Guess I shouldn't interrupt progress." She got on her feet and smoothed out two days' worth of wrinkles in her pantsuit.

"I'll be down the hall, sweetheart." She frowned at herself in the mirror of Alex's tiny bathroom. ''Looks like I'm the one who was in an explosion.''

Alex gathered a dark blue hospital robe about him as he was gingerly getting out of bed. "Well, don't be long, Mrs. Prison Warden. I'm due for a little more rehabilitation soon."

Bette stuck out her tongue at him.

2.

Lucille Perry had lived in the rowhouse at 21 Earl's Court for forty-four years and in that time, the street and its storybook surroundings had gone through the cycle of decay and renovation several times. When Rita pulled up alongside the PORT CITY WRECKING CO. truck and watched a big yellow bulldozer drop another load of bricks and rubble into the bin, she knew for a fact that it would be a long time before the bankers and realtors and developers could put the Court back together again, if ever.

Mrs. Perry had told her many years ago about the historical significance of the block. She had listened politely, knowing the woman was a patron member of the Historic Savannah Foundation, but not really understanding much of the convoluted story of how the Court came to be, who had lived when and where, and what minute architectural details could be seen by someone trained to appreciate them. The woman loved to talk for hours about the people who had once lived in the Court, especially "The Admiral," as she called him. one stooped old gentlemen with a limp and a Devonshire twang, and since it made her happy and kept her mind off other matters, Rita was only too willing to indulge her.

But today, the Court was in ruins. Rita shivered as she opened the door of the Ford and the sweltering August air mixed with the cool interior.

She left the car door ajar and picked her way carefully through mounds of broken stone and stucco fragments. A workman sitting in the cab of the dump truck saw her and yelled out.

"Watch yourself lady! There's glass all over the place!"

She paid him no attention and he cranked up his truck and rumbled on down the street. For the moment, at least, she was alone.

She kicked at some of the rubble, stooping occasionally to examine a piece more closely. A passerby would have naturally assumed her a scavenger, hunting for relics and things to pawn, but no one walked along the broken octagonal stones of the sidewalk that morning. If there were any eyes lurking behind the thick brocaded curtains across the street, or nosy gardeners diligently toiling in their backyard vegetable plots, Rita did not see them.

In truth, she wasn't looking.

Her attentions were elsewhere, beneath her shoes, somewhere in the wreckage of 21 Earl's Court. She moved on.

At about the position where she figured the cellar staircase had been, she halted. More intently, she squatted down and probed the debris with her hands. Nothing but masonry. A few splintered boards, a shred of carpet, the burned-out husk of a light bulb. She went down to her knees and began to crawl, still picking and shoveling through the rubble.

She scrambled over the rocks for ten minutes before finding it. She hadn't been sure it would even be there but she had to look. Her head throbbed and she cut her index finger picking it out of the rubble.

Rita sat back on a clear patch of dirt, her legs tucked under her. She was breathing hard and felt a bit lightheaded. She closed her eyes for a second and prayed thanks for her good fortune. If it had been lost--but it hadn't. That was the important thing. There was precious little left of the instrument, but it felt reassuringly heavy in her hand.

She did not look at the curved fragment of dull, rusted iron but quickly opened her purse and placed it inside, in the inner pocket with the zipper. She was careful to zip it up tight.

Then, she got to her feet, brushed off as much of the dirt from her smock as she could and returned to the car. She lightly touched her forehead and felt a blade of pain. She would be a month or more getting over the bruise caused by that ceiling joist.

But it didn't matter. She'd found what she had come for.
Chapter 3

1.

The little hamlet of Scotland Lake was founded and incorporated as a town in 1867. It was really only an after-thought in the mind of Harold McNeese, who had been farming in the area for nearly twenty years before the idea occurred to him. McNeese had come to America from Scotland and once out of the quagmire of New York, had sought out the most isolated place he could find to raise corn and tomatoes and a few pigs and cows.

Harold was a man with a temper who just couldn't abide people being too nearby; it was a cliché in the McNeese family history that he found more to his liking in the barnyard than the parlor. Jessie McNeese, who loved to tell stories about Harold when she wasn't fuming at her gangly husband Robert, usually added that the great patriarch never met a pig he didn't like.

Jessie said Harold founded the town to let the other settlers know the land was already spoken for. For most of the rest of the 19th Century, the population consisted almost entirely of McNeeses except for one awkward farm hand by the name of Chester Briggs. Nobody in the family knew where Chester had come from; Jessie claimed he was a squatter that Harold mistook for a pig for years before finally hiring him to help out. In any case, by the turn of the century, the town had boomed to nearly fifty people, most of them farmers struggling to scratch a living out of the rocky mountain soil.

The 20th century brought little excitement to the town, except for the occasional newcomer (almost always an immigrant family coming down from the North) and Muriel McNeese's marriage to Lionel Sykes, the night clerk at the old Trimble Hotel. Town gossip had it that Muriel had collared Lionel by fainting right into his arms during a particularly hot 4th of July bake sale in 1903. Much sport was made of Muriel's weight at the time and the picture of poor, skinny Lionel bug-eyed with the strain of holding up the hefty granddaughter of Harold McNeese brought regular titters to the genteel ladies of the Scotland Lake Azalea Club. It was a productive union though, for Lionel and Muriel gave the town five husky sons.

The biggest change in the town's character came in 1930. This was the year the National Park Service opened the Great Smoky Mountains National Park a few dozen miles to the north, thereby ensuring that Scotland Lake's destiny would forever more be dropped into the laps of land speculators, developer and tourists in search of genuinely quaint mountain villages.

A modicum of temporary prosperity came to the town in 1941 (and left in 1945) when the old Sawyer lumber mill works was converted by the federal government into a munitions plant. That and the arrival of electric power when TVA dammed the Little Tennessee River and created Fontana Lake in 1930 firmly planted Scotland Lake in the midst of a mid-century boom so that by 1950, nearly a thousand people claimed the place as their home. The new prosperity didn't last the decade. After the war, the War Department sold the mill back to its original owners (who promptly sold out and left town); that also broke the hold of the McNeeses on the town and opened the way for other families to make their own contributions. Which was just fine with great-great-grandson Robert McNeese, who much preferred antique collecting and good sour mash whiskey to running the affairs of a dingy, godforsaken speed trap.

The people of Scotland Lake being as they are, it would never do to have named the main street of the town simply Main Street. Mountain folks are more independent-minded than that and so it fell to the imagination of Harold McNeese's daughter Sallie to christen the main thoroughfare Scotland Avenue, which everyone agreed was a proud and fitting appellation to what was at the time a rutted, gully-washed boulevard of dirt. Being a portion of U.S. Highway 19, the avenue ran roughly southwest-northeast and was graced in the center of the village by a flowery tree-shaded square full of brilliant white azalea beds and neatly trimmed rows of red tulips and geraniums, bordered with lavender "fences" of lilac bushes and the occasional dogwood or cherry tree. In the center of the square was an octagonal concrete pool and fountain (supplied with a pump from Mr. Keene's Hardware at no charge to the town) surmounted by a marble statue of Daniel Boone, in a proper pioneer pose, given to the Lake in 1946 by Robert McNeese after he had acquired it in an auction in Nashville for something under three thousand dollars.

The square was formed by the intersection of Scotland Avenue with Wickham Road and virtually all of the town's most important businesses were concentrated in the block around it. There were two traffic lights, one at either end of the square, perfectly situated and timed so that any motorist daring enough to run the first one couldn't possibly make it through the second without risking either an impressive collision or a visit from the diligent chief of police Dick Mosley in his shiny new Plymouth Volare. Even the truck drivers slowed down in Scotland Lake and this pleased the women of the Azalea Club immensely for then they would be sure to have, for however briefly, an appreciative audience for their lovely gardens in the square.

To the casual observer, a map of the city limits of Scotland Lake resembled a big anvil, wide at the top, tapered in the middle and bulging out again at the bottom. The intersection with Wickham Road was the main nexus of town activity but the anvil sported a number of other streets, courts, lanes, terraces and highways so that it might seem to have grown an array of antennae as well.

The northeast quarter of the town and its environs was easily the hilliest. Three mountains of considerable height could usually be seen through the ever-present haze along the ridge: Eagle Point, Bears Knob and, more to the east, Hiker's Cap. Louis Beems' Table Top Stables occupied a picturesque plateau between the first two peaks, about two miles due north of the town square and Robert McNeese's huge Georgian mansion nestled snugly on a ledge on the east face of Eagle Point a few miles beyond that. Further out along the main road in that direction, which was Raven Creek Drive, the land was undeveloped and heavily wooded, thick with oak, hickory, ash and pine trees.

To the southeast, the long green line of the Nantahala Mountains curved away to the horizon. This was usually thought to be the town's picture postcard view and the highway northeast of town was sometimes busy in the early fall months with families from Atlanta and Nashville and even Florida admiring the changing colors of the leaves and posing for pictures along the scenic stretches of that road. The land sloped away sharply to the southeast, forming a spectacular meandering valley dotted with an occasional plume of smoke from a vacation cabin or campfire. Branch Road, which crossed the highway about a mile south of the center of town, could be followed for miles with a good pair of binoculars, sneaking in and out of the mountains like a piece of white string thrown down on top of the green. The view was all the same to the townspeople but they had learned long ago just how much visitors would be willing to pay in Perry's Book and Drug Store for snapshots of the scene.

The southwest and western perspectives of the town were dominated by the presence of the Lake itself. A thousand acres in area, it was seldom more than thirty feet deep except for one spot south of the center, where the bottom plunged to fifty-two feet. Walt Ames, who lived in a cottage not far from the Lake on West Ramp Road, swore that the depression was caused by an extension of Cathedral Caverns that had caved in long ago. Only luck had prevented the same thing from happening to the parts of the Caverns open to the public, he added, which was yet another reason to curtail the growth of tourism in the area.

At the north end of the Lake, several islands could be found, at one time dense with wiry brush and hawthorn trees. They had been cleared in the winter and spring of 1962-63, by Raymond and Jasmine Stocker. Now the old Nicoll's Island chain was home to a small, marginally profitable amusement park, linked to shore by a little passenger ferry at the end of West Ramp. The islands themselves were connected by small wooden footbridges (that was Junior Clower's touch) and, since Scotland Lake was a man-made lake, they were occasionally subject to changes in the water line, as Duke Power Company adjusted the spillways of the Pioneer River dam. The level of the lake was a perpetual bone of contention between Duke and the townspeople.

The northwestern quadrant was hill country again, green and lumpy and hazy from any view. Wickham Road turned west just north of the town square and took the curious traveler past the ruined corn fields of the old Blanchard farm, now weeded over and almost invisible under its canopy of kudzu, straight on out to the Lake's other principal attraction: Cathedral Caverns. The Caverns had never been fully explored--they were among the most extensive and least publicized in the eastern states--and were currently owned and operated by Greta Blanchard, a vigorous and thoughtful woman of fifty-five years. Cathedral was hardly unique in having an underground Indian burial chamber with the perfectly preserved remains of a Cherokee chief frozen in ice, but all the same, it was a point of pride with Greta that her Indian had been thoroughly researched by the archaeologists from Raleigh and pronounced an important find. She made sure this point was well advertised in the brochures.

Beyond the Caverns, the northwest was sparsely populated, most of the Lake's residential neighborhoods being east and south of the town square. There was the occasional cabin, occasionally occupied, and a few ratty trailer parks on the Pioneer Road extension but little else to recommend the area to tourists and developers. The deer and raccoon and beaver liked that just fine.

The question of how much development to permit or encourage was one of the main preoccupations of the Town Council—there seemed little else of importance to argue about. Scotland Lake had a mayor, Sam Burdette, who was also president and principal owner of the Mountain National Bank. And it had a Council, often called the Town Board, among whom was Joe Burdette. The two brothers couldn't agree on anything, least of all something so contentious as tourism. Tuesday morning hearings in the oak-paneled conference room at Town Hall were dreaded by everyone, especially Viola Burns, whose job it was to serve the men their plates of eggs, hash browns, grits and sausage before the meeting began. She often muttered to the cook, Blanche Blaine, when she got back to the Waffle House, that the children in Edna Littleton's kindergarten were better behaved.

The Lake had a simple government. There was the Town Board, composed of eleven men elected every other year. There was the Mayor and City Manager, the first elected, the second appointed. There was the police chief--Dick Mosley--and the fire chief Roy Hewitt. The bureaucracy consisted of a Town Clerk, a prim man named Hastings who took a dim view of Mayor Burdette's financial interest in the Bank and its possible conflict of interest, a school board and a roads and grounds department, which consisted of a part-time gardener and Russell McLean's Pilot Paving Company, fixed up with a perpetual contract from the city to maintain roads and sidewalks in the area.

Beyond that. the people of the Lake preferred to take care of their own needs.

They found their City a comfortable place to live, if uninspiring to the casual visitor. The scenery was gorgeous year-round and a true outdoorsman could not have doubted that he was nearer to heaven here than anywhere else on earth. There was good hunting north of town and the Pioneer River still gave up its tasty trout to the diligent fisherman. Scotland Lakers seldom asked for more. What they knew of the outside world came to them through television and radio, newspapers and books. Mrs. Lattimore of the Public Library and Museum was often heard to complain of boredom for the townspeople suffered no lasting interest in the world of imagination and art. They considered themselves solid, hard-headed folks with no use for pretense or "airs." It was true that the Blanchard boy had suffered terribly at the hands of his captors in that ''Viet-Nam thing," as Walt Ames put it, and other intrusions of the modern world could be detected by the attentive observer, especially during the height of the tourist season, when Sue Kemmons and the other young women of the town studied their visitors for any hint of changes in fashion they should be aware of.

But for the most part, Scotland Lake seemed secure in its relative isolation, content to exist as it always had, on the fringes of somebody's mind, an afterthought and little more to those who were not fortunate enough to live there. The people of the Lake could be forgiven for feeling secure in their belief that the world's ills would never find them.

2.

Ray Stocker stood angrily with his hands on his hips, fuming at the boy's carelessness. He was so mad he had to swallow a few times to keep from choking on his own saliva. "Goddamn you, Jack--how many times do I have to tell you! You're supposed to keep that thing clean! Come on--get her out! The Lake's damn freezing this time of year!" He waited a few seconds, then unbuttoned his shirt so he wouldn't split it open and stooped down.

Jack Blanchard shook his black hair to see better and braced himself. The woman who had slipped on the wharf and fallen into the lake was drenched and shivering, but remarkably calm about the whole thing. Her husband squatted next to Jack and took hold of the other hand, careful to grip her wrist tightly.

"Ouch!" she screamed and pulled that wrist free quickly, grimacing.

"Don't drop her!" yelled Stocker. He grunted as he lay down on his belly and stretched out to get a hold of her sopping wet blouse. It tore as he pulled but after a minute of struggling, the three men were able to get the woman up onto the slick boards of the wharf.

She lay there breathing hard for awhile, her face screwed up into a mask of pain.

Stocker rubbed a bruise on his stomach gingerly as he buttoned his shirt back. It was smudged with mud and grease and he swore under his breath, knowing how much the thing had cost at Gable's Men Shop in Asheville. But he couldn't worry about that now.

"You all right, ma'am--get away, Jack! Go on, just get out of the way." He helped her to her feet and tried a thin apologetic smile. "I'm terribly sorry this had to happen, ma'am."

She was a portly, middle-aged woman, with a pouchy, sun-burned Midwestern face and a tight bun of gray-brown hair. Her husband held her arm gently while she tentatively flexed her wrist.

"I think it's broken," she announced at last.

Stocker forced down more saliva and glared over at Jack.

"We'll pay all medical expenses, ma'am, you can be sure of that. This should never have happened."

The woman's husband said, "It was an accident.''

Jack stood by the mooring cleats, wet hair plastered over his eyes. He watched Stocker warily. "I'm sorry. I never meant for this to happen."

"But it did." Stocker said. "Son, how many times have I warned you about this deck? Answer me--"

Jack shrugged. "I mopped it once already—".

"You don't have the brain of a fly, Jack. My own dog has a better sense of duty."

"Please, Mr. Stocker--"

"Shut up and listen to me, son." Stocker took off his glasses and rubbed them against his shirt. He had tiny eves, made even tinier by his big-fig nose and fleshy cheeks. Those cheeks were burning red now and Jack shuddered. "I gave you this job because your mother asked me to. Chief Mosley asked me to as well. They wanted to keep you out of trouble. But you don't seem to appreciate it very much. If you can't find it within yourself to do the job right, then tell me now and I'll let you go."

"Mr. Stocker, it was an accident. I swear to God. I mopped this stupid thing right after I came to work. Ask Danny--he was here."

"It's your fault!" Stocker yelled.

"JESUS GODDAMN CHRIST, MAN!" Jack stuck a finger in the man's face, startling everybody. The woman and her husband shifted uncomfortably and looked at each other. ''What do you want--a fucking robot?"

Now, Ray Stocker was fuming and his lips quivered while he groped for words. "You got no right to talk like that! You're a pissant--you always have been. You should've stayed in Vietnam. It'd do you good to get those big balls blown off."

The woman said. "Please, please, lets--."

"Back in 'Nam, buddy, we take guys like you and kick their balls up through their teeth!"

"Guys, really, it was an accident."

"You know how much it cost me to hire someone like you?"

"I DON'T CARE, MAN!" Jack screamed. He let his breath out slowly and unclenched his fist. "No, man. This ain't Ninh Binh. I'm not going that route again."

"Maybe you'd like to be unemployed," said Stocker.

Jack's voice was lower, quieter. "Don't dump on me, Mr. Stocker. You know I'm crazy--you don't know what I might do. Just ease off now baby, or we'll have some real fireworks."

The woman said, "Can't you go easier on the boy? I'm sure it was just an accident. Look." she rotated her wrist, "it's not broken. Just a bad sprain. Really, there's no need to have a fight over this."

Jack and Ray Stocker scowled at each other for a minute. Behind them, a small line of customers waited at the gate at the end of the ramp, ready to board the ferry for the five-minute ride out to Nicoll's Island. Some kids were tossing a bright red Frisbee along the shore and one of them threw it too hard. The disk skimmed off the top of the wharf piling and came to a stop right at Jack's feet. He reached down to pick it up, never taking his eyes off his boss.

"I gotta go start up the Ferris wheel, man." He slung the Frisbee back to its owners and jumped onto the foredeck of the ferry. "The kids are waiting."

3.

It was a mild Friday night and the weatherman on Channel 7 had said the high pressure over the east would hold for at least another two days. President Ford was making a trip to California, to Sacramento. Viking 1 was on its way to Mars. Joanne Little had just been acquitted in a trial for stabbing her white jailer to death. Emperor Haile Selassie was near death in Ethiopia. In baseball, the Reds were closing in on a pennant. The Braves had lost again.

Joe Burdette had a slight headache when he turned the TV off and removed the earplug he used to keep from waking his wife Hannah. As the phosphor dots faded to nothing, Joe rubbed the bridge of his nose and willed the headache to go away.

Don't need this. Don't need it at all.

But it persisted. It wasn't a sharp pain, more like a dull throbbing ache that started somewhere behind his right ear usually, then spread over the entire top of his skull. In half an hour, it felt like he'd had his head in a vise all day and even triple doses of Tylenol and Coors didn't help. He'd have to tough it out somehow. And it wouldn't really start to fade until he talked to Edd a bit. Pa knows how to get rid of it.

Joe leaned over slightly, to see if Hannah was asleep. She was a big, sturdy woman with too many age blemishes to be attractive. She had calloused hands and discolored teeth and bright blue eyes and Joe had once thought she was the most exotic thing that had ever come to the Lake. A genuine Nazi princess was what Bucky Dewitt liked to call her, when the Morgans came to town in 1939. That wasn't fair--the whole town wasn't fair. But Joe showed them--after he treated the Dewitts' firewood with gasoline. Bucky didn't say any more of those things.

The damn thing is he was right all alone.

His head boomed again and Joe decided he'd better think about something more pleasant. It had been a long time since he made love to Hannah--had he ever? He couldn't really remember. He might as well have stuck it in a Coke bottle for all the good it did. The woman was as sterile as Doc Haley's needle. He had come to think of her, in those years since 1950, as part of the furniture. She was nice to have around, comfortable and all that--especially on cold nights, when it was like snuggling up to a sheep dog-but really, he just didn't pay her all that much attention any more.

He leaned over again and heard the tinny whistle of her snoring. She was dead fast asleep. all right. Joe checked the luminous dial of the clock radio. It read 12:18.

Be cool and damp outside.

Carefully, he lifted the blanket and quilt and slipped out of bed. sitting on the carpet beside the nightstand. The clock radio provided just enough light for him to see by. He got his thick woolen socks on, followed by his boots. Lacing them up, he got to wondering what Pa would say about things. He hadn't talked to him in a few weeks. Goddamned tourists been all over the Caverns, just like fleas. Tonight would be different, though. They'd have a fine old talk, really shoot the shit and laugh and snort about getting away from that bank man in Chattanooga back in '35--God but it rained an ocean on them that night. The roads were nothing but mud.

Joe buttoned up his flannel shirt and pulled on a light plastic windbreaker. He frowned when his head hurt again and took a final glance in Hannah's direction. She had moved slightly--now she was on her stomach, head twisted around, that big right paw crammed into her mouth. "God almighty," he muttered under his breath. He crept out of the bedroom and went down the hall to the kitchen.

The best thing for a headache is a good cold beer so Joe opened the fridge and snapped off another Coors from the six-pack, counting the cans remaining. He'd have to make a trip to the Skyline Bottle Shop tomorrow, on his way to work, to see if Willy had bootlegged any more lately for those truckers.

He chugged it down in a few seconds and belched. His head really didn't feel all that much better but he told himself it did. He left the can on the table, uncrushed, and opened the back door, fumbling with the keys in the darkness. Down the concrete steps of the cottage, making sure not to let the screen door slam.

It was pleasant out, not too cool, but rather mild. He could smell wet dirt and pine sawdust, from over by the shed, where he'd been building himself a small boat. There wasn't much moon in the sky--a sliver was about all--but even by its feeble light, he could see the fresh planking he had nailed and glued together earlier in the evening. It made him feel good.

Cathedral Caverns lay about a mile and a half northwest of their cottage, that is if you took Wickham Road. But he wasn't about to do that. There was no telling who you might run across going that way, or more to the point, who might run over you. The truckers sometimes took Wickham as a short cut up to Robbinsville and Yellowcreek.

Joe didn't have any wish to be seen tonight.

So he set off through the woods behind their cottage, going the old footpath he had walked a hundred times since they had moved in here. He was glad it was as worn down as it was. There weren't many leaves to crunch or twigs to snap. He was a good woodsman and he knew that you didn't go wandering around in these woods at night raising hell.

He'd thought briefly about bringing one of his crossbows, maybe doing a little night hunting. But he decided not to. His head bothered him too much. He strode quickly along, avoiding massive tree roots and rain gullies by instinct. All around, the screech of crickets filled the air, along with honeysuckle and the grape smell of kudzu. There were eyes in the lower branches of the oaks and pines, glaring at him. Something dark and furry scuttled across his path. He listened carefully as he went on, identifying each sound as it came to him. Smiling to himself as he did. He was at home out here, among friends.

Fifteen minutes' walk brought him to a split in the path. He took the left branch, where the going was harder, as the terrain angled up steeply. The brush was thicker here, some of it covering huge, misshapen outcroppings of rock. He was on the lowest flanks of Willow Hill now, climbing up and across one of its three ridges. The dirt path switched back and forth, as it followed the most level, negotiable road it could.

He was short of breath when the path finally began to descend toward the ledge where the cave entrance was located. Mountain laurel and pink rhododendron were thick here and he stumbled a few times over tough vines buried in the soil. He half slid, half fell down the last slope, catching the sleeve of his windbreaker on some hawthorn limbs. It ripped a small tear and he cursed at his carelessness.

Joe Burdette plopped down heavily onto the asphalt of the Caverns parking lot.

He stood perfectly still for a moment, squinting in the cold moonlight, to see if anyone else was present. The lot was empty and up at the other end, he could see the big stone Visitors Center and the elevator shaft. An iron grille blocked entrance to the main cave, down at the foot of the tower. Joe knew there would be three shiny Yale padlocks on the grille, to keep uninvited visitors out. Greta Blanchard didn't much go for unsupervised tours of her Caverns--"the insurance man would kill me," she explained, but it didn't matter. Joe knew more about the Caverns than anybody in the Lake ever dreamed of knowing. Greta's padlocks were nothing.

Yessir, Pa, you and me are going to have a fine old time tonight.

He guessed that if you were in the right kind of mood, the whole place would seem rather spooky. Hannah once told him that, seen at night, the dark, shadowed elevator tower, surrounded by the thick pine woods and steep embankments, reminded her of some of the castles near Augsburg, on the Lech River, with their massive stone parapets and turrets and battlements.

She always did have a story-book for a brain.

Greta Blanchard had no idea whatsoever that there were as many as four different ways of getting into the Caverns. Joe had used all of them at one time or another but tonight, he didn't really feel like too much of an adventure. It was the simple way tonight--jimmy open the window of the ladies' restroom in back with his old Swiss any knife---he'd worn down the latch so much it was easy now--then, move that garbage can over and hoist himself right through. Once inside, he'd go back up to the front, where all the displays and brochures were neatly laid out and the desk had that big visitors' register. There were pictures taken inside the Caverns, in conditions of unusual lighting that were real pretty, Joe thought whenever he passed them. Real eerie too. Just what the tourists loved.

But he didn't stay up front long. Behind the desk, there was a door and through it was a tiny storage closet, where Greta kept her extra packs of flyers and pamphlets advertising the Caverns. Underneath the old chest where she kept these things, the flooring could be pulled up, if you were strong enough. There were eight boards there, not hinged, but lying over two heavy cedar beams, now black with age. All you had to do was prise up one of the boards with the broom that was always in the corner and, in short order, you were staring down an old wooden ladder into what looked like a dirt pit. Only it wasn't. Joe had fixed it up to look like some kind of crawl space.

Once down the ladder, you could see that the pit led out toward one of the Caverns' still unexplored cross-tunnels. No one in Scotland Lake had ever known it was there.

No one but Joe Burdette.

4.

Memorial Medical Center in Savannah is several miles south of the old center of the city, out along Waters Avenue. There is a shopping center across the street, the Medical Arts Shopping Center, where the families of patients at the hospital and families of the elderly incarcerated in the high-rise Stillwell Towers next door often pass the time window-shopping or buying cute little knickknacks for their loved ones.

For the ladies, there is a Merle Norman cosmetics studio and a Lady Jane boutique and a Desbuillons Jewelers. For the men, there's Mack's 5 and 10, a decent magazine rack at the Revco and a branch of the Savannah Bank and Trust Company. For the hungry, there's Basil Leopold's Restaurant, with homemade ice cream, plus the Byrd Brothers Supermarket and the inevitable Burger Inn across the street.

It was a humid, stifling hot Friday afternoon that twenty-second day of August and Bette Perry had spent almost two weeks' worth of nights at the Medical Arts Motel, waiting for Dr. Matrangos to finally admit that her husband was fully recovered from his injuries. Alex's recovery had proceeded deliberately, according to Matrangos; there was no sense in taking any chances with concussions and that separated shoulder would need time to heal.

No sense taking chances at all, Bette thought, not when it's ninety-five dollars a day plus lab services.

When Matrangos had finally signed the release papers that morning, after giving Alex a good looking over, she knew right then how a prisoner must feel when he's done his time and the big gates are opened.

"I don't think I could have spent another day around here." she told him, as she helped him fold some shirts for packing in the suitcase. "You know what I did for thrills while you were in here snoozing?"

"Flash at the buses going by?"

"Almost. I wound up flipping through the True Detective rags over at Revco, looking for at least one female who wasn't tied up."

"Did you find any?"

Bette grinned. "Wouldn't you like to know? How's that shoulder?"

Alex flexed his left arm; it was set slightly forward in a sling. "Not too bad actually. It feels much better."

Bette traced her finger along one of the straps, ending up at his shoulder, where she massaged it gently. "That hurt?

"Nope. I really feel pretty good. In fact, I haven't felt this strong in a long time." To prove it, he went over to the door and reached down for both suitcases.

"Honey, be careful--"

"I tried it this morning. Watch." And he proceeded to lift one suitcase with each arm.

"Do you think that's smart, Alex? Dr. Matrangos warned you to go easy on that shoulder for a month or so."

"I know he did but if I can already do this, it must not be as bad as he thought. Either that, or I'm making an incredibly rapid recovery."

Bette came over and took the suitcase out of his left hand. "Let's not take any chances, huh? I want my husband back whole."

They finished packing and went down to the administrative desk, where Alex signed the requisite forms for insurance and billing. Sharon, the head nurse, was behind the glass. She winked slyly at Alex and told Bette. "You better watch this one, Mrs. Perry. He's been playing sick for two weeks now, just so he can ogle all the nurses around here."

When Alex tried to protest, Bette pinched him and replied, ''If I don't get him away now, he's liable to try and break a leg."

Alex handed the clipboard back through the opening and added. "Thanks, Sharon. Take care."

The nurse said, "You, too. Both of you."

His car had been moved to Long-term Parking when Alex was first admitted. It was a gun metal gray Nova, with a crunched fender on the back right side--something Alex had been meaning to fix for two years. Bette wanted him to buy them a new Olds or maybe a Toyota Liftback. Something with a bit more room for the kids. Alex wanted a Chevy van.

Bette watched in amazement as her husband hoisted both suitcases into the trunk with no ill effects. She knew it had to be hurting him and smiled inside. He's just trying to impress me. Wants me to go easy on him. She waited until he had the car packed and ready to go. Then she fastened her arms around his waist, after he'd shut the trunk.

"I love you." She ruffled his hair--he didn't have all that much--and kissed him good.

"Mmmm. I should be sick more often."

Bette wrinkled her nose and she pulled away. "I'll be awfully glad when you get off that medicine. Your breath smells like Mr. Tackaberry's septic tank in April."

"Oh, shut up—say, where did you get this?" Alex noticed the delicate golden necklace she was wearing. It had a tiny cross at the end. He started to finger it but suddenly drew his hand back sharply.

"I found it at that jewelers across the street. What's the matter—don't you like it?" She was puzzled by his reaction.

Alex shuddered and unlocked himself from her grasp. "Take it off, Bette."

"Whatever for--"

''Just take it off, please."

She reached behind her neck and undid the catch, dropping the necklace into her purse. Then she went right back to her husband and put her arms around him again. "My God, Alex, you're shaking like a scared little dog. What's wrong?"

Alex frowned and shook his head. His eyes were glazed for a second, but he quickly recovered. "I don't know...something...I don't really know." He sighed and stared out at the traffic on Waters Avenue.

"You've been through a lot these past two weeks, what with the funeral and the explosion. You're just tired. Come on, get in and let me drive."

Alex let her guide him to the door. "It'll be good to see Jimmy and Marcy again, won't it?"

'`Of course it will. There, go on. Get in." She was startled to feel how cold his skin had suddenly become, how sweaty and sticky to her touch. A fever, she told herself. He's tried to do too much, poor thing.

She went around and got in on the driver's side.

The engine started finally and Bette revved it for a few minutes. She rolled down hers and Alex's windows--now he seemed lost in thought, staring off into space a million miles away--to let the air conditioning blow out the hot air.

She backed the car out and drove down to the exit gate, where she had to fumble through her purse to find enough bills to pay a two-week parking fee. It was $25.50.

By the time they had made it to the end of the long, winding, tree-lined driveway, passing the flag garden where she had eaten lunch so many times, Alex was fast asleep.

It was the throaty growl of his snoring that most disturbed her.
Chapter 4

1.

Edna Littleton was exhausted. She dropped into her favorite seat, the red leather wingback by the fireplace and tried to get her breath back. She had been more than happy to keep Jimmy and Marcy Perry for a few days while their parents went to that funeral down in Savannah, but she hadn't bargained on two weeks. She watched them wrestling with each other on the rug--at the moment, Marcy was getting the best of her brother--and thought about maybe seeing if they wouldn't rather watch TV instead of doing EI Mongol versus Assassin No.1 on her brand new living room carpet.

''Hey, kids! Let's watch television, okay?''

"Why?" yelled Marcy. She managed to get Jimmy into a kind of half-Nelson. "I'm winning!"

"No, you're not!" Jimmy yelled back. He grunted and finally twisted around far enough to where he could bite his sister's elbow, which he did with relish.

"Ow, darn it!" Marcy ripped her arms free. "That's not fair. Miss Littleton, tell Jimmy that's not fair." She stuck out her tongue as Jimmy waved a triumphant fist in her face.

"That's enough wrestling for tonight, kids. Come on, let's watch Friday Night Thriller. I'll even make some popcorn, if you'll behave yourself."

"Really? Neat!" Jimmy flopped onto his stomach two feet from the screen and stared at it eagerly, waiting for someone to turn it on. "Move over, runt."

Marcy pressed ON/OFF and changed the dial to Channel 4.

Up on the screen, the scraggly lines of the movie title blazed:

"RETURN TO BLOOD MOUNTAIN"

"Oh, boy," said Jimmy. He settled down to watch, chin propped up on his hands. Beside him, Marcy lay on her side, a blue and white cushion under her head.

Edna Littleton shook her head and went into the kitchen. She was a round little woman, with a red nose and stout legs and hardly anyone in the Lake hadn't had her for English when she had taught at Appalachian County High School, where she had been employed for something like twenty-eight years before retiring. She was a town relic and loved as such, and she had made a lot of the Lake's mothers happy when she had opened Kindertown in February 1972. She loved children, by her own admission; she couldn't stay away from them, though she had none herself. Inevitably, the kids returned that affection.

She was heating up a burner on the stove for the Jiffy-Pop when the doorbell rang. Edna switched it off and smoothed out her denim skirt before going into the living room to answer it. Jimmy and Marcy were engrossed in the picture and paid her no attention.

She opened the door and smiled.

"Well, well, welcome back. I wondered if you'd get in before I had to put them to bed. Come on in, please. You look tired."

"We are," Bette Perry said. Alex was behind her. He shut the door.

"Mommy! Daddy!" Marcy scrambled to her feet and ran to her father. Alex lifted her up and gave her a big kiss, draping her over his shoulder, where she could get the same from

Bette while he reached down and did likewise on Jimmy's forehead.

"You guys been behaving?" Alex asked.

"Nope,'' said Jimmy. His mother put her arms around his neck and playfully choked him. "We're gonna have popcorn."

''Are you now?''

Edna explained. "It's a bribe, I have to admit. My reward for getting them to watch TV."

''Miss Littleton, I hope they haven't been too much trouble for you." said Bette. "I'm sorry we couldn't come back any sooner."

"Oh, nonsense, you couldn't help it. We had a grand time, didn't we?"

"Yeah!" they both yelled.

Edna clucked at the sight of Alex's sling. "How's that arm doing?"

"It's my shoulder but it's doing very well, thank you. I hope I can get out of this thing in a week or so."

"Wouldn't you both like to stay for some coffee? I have doughnuts too." She laughed at Jimmy, who was making faces at Marcy through his father's legs. ''And I did promise the kids some popcorn."

"Thanks, Miss Littleton, but we really can't," said Bette. She pulled Jimmy out from behind his father and gave him a stern 'straighten-up' look. "Alex is tired and so am I. But we do appreciate what you've done. You're a lifesaver."

Alex extracted his wallet with his good arm and flipped through it. He took out a fifty and two twenties and pressed them into Edna's reluctant hands. "We sure do. This won't cover everything but I want you to have it now. I'll square things up next week after I can get to the bank.''

Edna took off her granny glasses and folded them into a skirt pocket. She took the money and smiled. "You know I don't have to tell you it was a pleasure. They're both fine youngsters and you should be proud of them. But, thanks anyway."

Bette took Marcy's hand and said, ''Well, I guess we ought to go see if the house is still there."

"You're sure you won't stay awhile?"

Alex shook his head. "I think we'll all be glad to sleep in our own beds...won't we?"

"Yes, sir!" said Jimmy.

"Well, anyway, it's good to see you're both all right. I know hardly a day went by when someone wasn't asking about you."

They said good-bye and went out to Alex's car. Edna Littleton lived a few houses up Cowles Road, not far from the old Bowden house, where she had set up Kindertown. There was an open grass field across the street, popular for softball and football games, and through the stand of pines on the far side, the exterior lights of Orchard Elementary School were visible, down on Pulliam Road.

Edna waved as Alex backed out of the gravel drive and headed down for the intersection with Wickham. When the Nova had vanished around the turn, she yawned ferociously and walked back into her house.

The Perrys had lived in the two-story house at 32 Elder Lane since last August, in fact it was the l0th they had moved in. There was never any trouble remembering the date because the day before, Richard Nixon had resigned the Presidency and made his speech on TV.

It was a compact house, almost as tall as it was wide, but that was deceptive for it was plenty spacious enough for four people. A duke's mixture of Georgian and Victorian styles, they had bought it from the Stockers and done a little renovation in the spring of 1974 to make it livable. Jasmine Stocker said no one had lived in it for seventeen years and the last occupant she could remember was Vickie Sue Purcell, to whom she had rented before that unfortunate woman had electrocuted herself trying to fiddle with her homemade hair dryer.

Alex pulled into the driveway and parked right behind Bette's Ford Ranch Wagon. The cupolas and balconies of the house were dark but inviting and Alex shoved open the door wearily.

"See, I can too drive a car."

Bette replied. "But it wasn't easy, was it? You're more stubborn than Mr. Beems' old nag Sentry. Let's go in before I die right here. I'm beat.''

"Can we have some popcorn, Dad?" asked Jimmy.

"You can have a knuckle sandwich if you don't get right to bed."

"Aw, Dad .... "

"No arguments, son. Your mother and I are both pooped. How about a little help with the luggage--take Mother's satchel and your suitcase too."

They trundled all the bags and cases up to the front porch and waited while Alex unlocked the door. He nudged it open with a knee and Bette flipped on the lights to the porch and foyer. They went in and Bette told Marcy to shut the door behind them. "I want you both in bed in half an hour." Bette told them.

"Mom."

"Don't 'Mom' me. I'm not gonna argue with you."

Jimmy and Marcy trudged dejectedly up the stairs, dragging their small suitcases behind them. Bette went into the kitchen and flipped on some lights.

"You want a drink, honey?" She opened the refrigerator. "There's still some beer in here."

Alex's voice came from the den. ''Make me a sandwich too."

"Yes, dear." Bette said to herself. Before she did that, though, she opened the cabinet above the refrigerator and took down a bottle of Scotch. Armed with a Scotch and water, she fixed up a tray of cold cuts and potato chips and went into the den. Alex was sitting in the middle of the floor, sorting through the mail.

Bette set the tray on the coffee table and was about to open her copy of Ladies Home Journal, when a loud knocking at the door came.

"Probably the Tackaberrys," she surmised. She went to the door and opened it.

Frank and Jeanne Costa stood smiling in the wan porch light. Frank held up a bottle of wine.

"Welcome back, strangers. We come bearing gifts." He kissed Bette on the cheek, followed by Jeanne.

"We were at the Town Pantry, putting our bags into the trunk when you drove by." Frank explained. "I thought you might need a little cheering up...after the funeral and all."

Bette took him by the hand and pulled him into the foyer. "Thanks, you two. We just put the kids to bed. Come on in and keep us company while we unpack."

Frank Costa was one of Scotland Lake's two doctors, the other was Cyrus Haley. He was a tall man of thick black curly hair, a white man's Afro really, with a basketball player's build and a funny way of bouncing along as he walked. He had an olive complexion too and studious green eyes that seemed forever bloodshot from too much work. His wife Jeanne—they had met in Atlanta, when Frank was in medical school at Emory University--was a petite, freckled, calico blond woman, energetic and radiant with a beautiful melodious voice that she exercised constantly by singing to herself.

They went in and said hello to Alex.

"Do I get a free examination?" Alex asked. He reached up to shake hands with Frank, who stooped down and studied the sling arrangement.

"Not until you can beat me at tennis, pal. Tell me, how does that feel?"

Alex shrugged. "Great, if you want to know the truth. It hasn't hurt since the first morning I came to."

"You're lucky. Separated shoulders are often quite painful. Any dizziness or bad headaches?"

"Do I get charged for this?"

"Alex, I'm serious. From what I heard, you took quite a blow. That's what Bette told me on the phone."

"All right. all right. Nobody believes I'm fine. Actually. I have had a few headaches."

"See, you are human after all." said Jeanne. She was pouring Bette a glass of the wine.

"Anything else?"

"You really want to know?"

Frank nodded. "Professional curiosity.''

"I've been real hungry too. And restless, like you feel when you've had too much coffee. Every so often, I get a roaring kind of sound in my ears, like the ocean's nearby. I feel sort of—oh, I don't know...it's kind of stupid, really--"

"What?"

"Well, a kind of pressure inside of me. Honest to God, Frank, I feel bloated at times. like I could explode."

"He's been running a fever, too," Bette added. "Only he won't admit it."

Frank stood up to take the glass of wine Jeanne had poured for him. He swirled the red liquid and took a sip, sucking at it for a moment. Then, he sat down on the edge of the granite fireplace. "It sounds like you better take it easy, my boy. A concussion is nothing to play around with."

"But I feel great the rest of the time."

"Doesn't matter. Your body's telling you to be kind to it, so it can repair the damage. Want my advice?"

"I suppose."

"Pay attention to your body. Don't work so long at the store. Rest a lot. Just slow down everything for a few weeks. These all sound like post-traumatic symptoms to me; they almost always occur in compression-decompression type injuries."

"Aye, aye, Captain Bligh."

Jeanne wandered over to the fireplace, where she sat down beside her husband and patted him thoughtfully on the knee. "Okay, Marcus Welby, that's enough of that. We've got some other news, too, you know."

"Oh, right. Christ...I almost forgot. Ray and Jasmine Stocker are having beer and barbecue tomorrow night over by the Lake, in the picnic grounds. They wanted me to invite you both when I saw you."

"What's the occasion?" Bette asked.

"Nothing special. If you want my opinion, I think Ray over-ordered last month and just wants to get rid of some excess food and drink before it goes bad."

Jeanne nodded, a little sadly. "Nicoll's Island didn't have a very good August."

''That's as good a reason as any to have a party," Alex said. "What do you think, dear?"

Bette looked up from her crossword puzzle. "If you're sure you're up to it."

"I think it would be the neighborly thing to do, don't you? Who's going to be there?"

"Jasmine mentioned a few names. "Jeanne said. "Us, you, we hoped, the Stockers, Greta Blanchard, the Mosleys, that kind of people."

"Joe Burdette won't be there, if that's what you're thinking." Frank added. "This is a social gathering, not a scrimmage."

"That's a relief." said Bette. "That man is --."

"--a menace." Jeanne finished for her. "And his brother isn't much better."

`'But he is the Mayor," said Frank.

"Is he still threatening to take away Ray's business permit?"

Frank nodded angrily. "Joe's influence, I'm sure. That's what Greta tells me anyway: she's known Sam and Joe ever since they came here in 1935. She says Joe's always had him cowed like that. But it's an empty threat and Sam knows it. Take away Nicoll's Island and Scotland Lake loses half its tourist revenue."

"I'm sure Joe wouldn't mind."

"Nor Walt Ames," said Alex. "You should hear him bitch at tourists and outsiders whenever I gas up at the station."

Jeanne got up and walked over to the window beside the fireplace. Outside, she could see the kitchen lights of her own house, two streets over on Rutledge. "Let's face it," she said to her reflection in the glass, "the town's divided about this. Some people here just can't handle the change. They fight it."

"They also set fire to garbage cans and cause garages to burn down," muttered Bette. "It's getting nastier all the time.''

''Well," said Alex, yawning wide and flexing his muscles, "I'm going to be pretty nasty if I don't get some rest. That's what the doctor here ordered. How's about helping us unpack, you two, so as to expedite my recovery?"

Frank stood up and reached for the wine. "You're too smart for your own good, neighbor. Feed me some of that Gouda cheese and I may even help you straighten this place up."

2.

It was a cool mountain twilight by the edge of Scotland Lake when the Perrys arrived at the picnic grounds. The sky was streaked lavender and orange with the remnants of a gorgeous sunset and the first faint stars shone hard and bright through the patchy summer cumulus. A moderate breeze skimmed in off the lake, rippling the green water peacefully and the sky was aglow with fireflies. The air was pungent with trout lily and hydrangea.

The picnic grounds commanded a shady promontory on the east side of the lake, overlooking a wide bend of steep grassy bluffs that dropped off into the water on the other side of South Ramp Road. There were boat ramps at the northern end of the ground, slippery, mud-covered ways clogged with weeds but well used by many of the townspeople as well as the visitors. Further north, maybe a couple of hundred yards, was the ferry dock and pier, where one embarked for the trip to Nicoll's Island. South of the ramps, the bluffs were too precipitous for commercial use and although dense with old twisted white pine and beechwood trees, had long been popular with Jack Blanchard and Sandy Stearns and others as a fishing spot. A good size bucket of bream was still possible if you were patient.

The grounds themselves were simple enough. There was a big stone pavilion back about fifty or sixty yards from the slope, made entirely out of granite quarried not twenty miles away. The pavilion was equipped with splintery old tables of pine and oak, now gray and slick from years of use and a row of five barbecue pits with rusty black iron grilles. Away from the pavilion, several score picnic benches and tables were scattered under the trees, each an island of sand and dirt in the otherwise scraggly fescue and clover that covered the field.

The whole place gave the first-time visitor a slightly seedy impression, as though it had once enjoyed a much livelier clientele and history. The truth was that it had changed very little in decades. The people of Scotland Lake seemed to find a modest sort of satisfaction in perpetuating the 1930s ambience that the place created.

By sometime after eight o'clock, everyone who had been invited to the get-together had arrived. Most were clustered in and around the pavilion, beer can or wine glass in hand, nibbling on Fritos and onion dip while the tasty aroma of wieners grilling and barbecue bubbling wafted on the breeze. Ray Stocker tipped back his white chef's cap and hauled up a ladle of Brunswick stew to taste.

"Mmm. That's not too shabby, if I do say so myself."

"How long, Ray? I'm starving." The speaker was Greta Blanchard, Jack's mother. She was a tall woman of fifty-five years, with a burned-in tan and reddish-brown hair fringed gray on top. She downed the rest of her Cabernet and fiddled idly with a dragon's head pendant that Robert McNeese had given her many years ago when she had graduated from Appalachian County. She loved jewelry and wore several bracelets and gaudy rings along with the pendant. Greta sat on the end of the bench and crossed her legs, nudging Ray in the backside while he stirred the stew some more.

"Not long, Greta. Ten or fifteen minutes more, that's all."

Greta ran an index finger around the rim of her glass, causing a faint hum. She licked the wine residue from her finger. ''That wife of yours gonna hold another meeting of the Foundation Society? Or have the girls chickened out?"

Ray removed his square-rims and wiped a spot of grease off. "They still meet. It just isn't as widely publicized as it used to be. Why? You thinking of joining?"

Greta waggled her hand. "Maybe. Maybe not. I wouldn't want my garage burnt down like yours though."

"Chief Mosley's already had a little talk with Sam. Everybody knows who did it."

"It wasn't Sam. Besides, talk is the last thing a Burdette will listen to. I found that out when I had to fire Joe from the Caverns staff back in 1957. I thought the man was gonna eat me, right then and there."

"Joe doesn't frighten me, Greta."

"Then you're not too bright, are you? Joe Burdette's like a bad virus, making this town sick. You got to respect someone like that, even if you don't like 'em."

Ray turned the wieners again and took another sip from his beer. He had a waxy face that looked as if it might melt from the heat of the fire. "I'll tell you one thing, Greta Blanchard. Bad boy or not, Joe's not the only one who lives in this town. You know me pretty well--you know I don't back away from a fight. There's no way on this earth he or anybody else is going to stop progress. It's like Jasmine says, 'We got a good thing here and we're not going to let anyone trample it before we can strut our stuff. I got plans for this town and I'm going to see them through."

"Like Nicoll's Island?"

Ray scowled. "We didn't make it like we wanted to with the amusement park, I'll admit that. But I've got the capital now to do a lot of good things. Investing in the old Kinsman estate with Ben Gault and turning it into the Mountcalm Lodge has changed everything. That's one reason I invited Alex Perry here tonight. He owns a couple of stores on the square and I've been working on him to go in with me on purchasing the Trimble Hotel and the Sirloin Saddle and really making something unique out of them. You ought to think about it yourself, Greta. Otherwise, we're going to lose business to Asheville and Highlands and Gatlinburg and all the other towns around here."

Greta sniffed skeptically. "You dream big, Raymond. Too big for this town. I got my money tied up in the Caverns and it's gonna stay there for now. Neville would have wanted it that way."

Ray shook his head. ``Sometimes, I don't understand you, Greta. I can't figure out whose side you're on."

"I'm on my side, that's all you need to know. I already stuck my neck out enough. When you get burned, you don't keep putting your finger in the fire. That's Greta Blanchard's A-number one rule of survival."

"Mountain lore," said Ray. "Don't you see that? This town's going to dry up and blow away in you don't inject a little new blood. I never have understood the hold that Joe and Sam Burdette have over this place."

"You haven't lived here long enough." She stood and took him by the arm, giving him a firm squeeze. "Take my advice, Ray. Don't push things too far too fast. Scotland Lake just can't digest it all." She stepped out of the pavilion and headed for the knot of people under a huge, withered oak tree beside the bluff.

Alex Perry was there, his left arm still in a sling, although by the way he moved it, he was not suffering. Jasmine Stocker was there, as was Dick Mosley, the Lake's Chief of Police, and Frank Costa. Greta sidled up and listened.

Mosley was talking. "--seem like much to go on, does it? Did the Lieutenant say anything else?"

Alex shook his head. Greta thought him an attractive man, if a bit slender. She liked the trim beard and moustache and especially that sexy bald head. He had a nose like a hawk but all in all, she could easily imagine herself in bed with him.

"All he said was that it had to be a natural gas leak. And that I was a very lucky man. The house was practically demolished." He glanced over Mosley's shoulder and spotted Greta standing there. A wicked kind of smirk spread over his face. "I see you back there, Greta. Come over here a minute. "

That didn't sound like Alex at all but Greta didn't mind. She came over to stand beside him and was further surprised when he gripped about the waist rather roughly and planted a long kiss on her cheek. The group murmured a bit and, in spite of herself, Greta blushed.

Jasmine scolded him. "What's got into you, Alex? You aren't normally a naughty boy."

Alex laughed a deep, hollow laugh. "I've been away and didn't know what I was missing." He swatted Greta's backside.

Jasmine watched Bette's reaction. She frowned and smiled at the same time, not sure what her husband was up to. She moved over and took Alex by the arm, gripping it a little more firmly than usual.

"He's been sick too, haven't you, dear?" She wasn't smiling when he looked at her.

"Well, it sounds like a strange thing to me," said Frank. "It could have been a lot worse."

Jasmine agreed. "We're having our worst season in years. If it weren't for you and Ray, the Lake would have no future at all."

Red Beavers, who owned the Top Flite Auto Service Center burped and added, "What this town needs is a good whorehouse, don't it Chief? That'd solve a lot of problems." He took off his blue baseball cap with UT-VOLS stenciled on the front and poked Dick Mosley in the side with it, guffawing hardily.

Mosley forced out a thin smile.

It was clear to Bette that Alex had embarrassed them but they weren't going to show it. She was grateful for that and tried to steer her husband away so she could straighten him out but he refused to budge. Instead, he leered openly at Jasmine Stocker, standing next to him.

What's wrong with him?

Jasmine was an attractive woman. Compact and flirtatious, she had the right combination of India ink hair, marble complexion and smoky eyes that men noticed. She had picturesque legs too and Bette ground her teeth wishing Jasmine hadn't won those white shorts. She squeezed his arm a little harder.

Jasmine knew she was being watched. At first, she paid him no attention. She chatted with Frank and Jeanne for awhile, laughing and joking, getting a refill of wine from Dick Mosley, and trying to ignore him. Red Beavers studied Alex carefully over the rim of his beer can, wondering what he might do next.

Greta felt sorry for Bette and gave her a sympathetic look.

"Our gate receipts are the worst since '69," Jasmine was saying. She had turned her back to Alex now and taken hold of a low-hanging branch, slowly crumbling one of the leaves in her left hand. "And the concessions--you wouldn't believe them. I don't how what's happening but if next summer isn't any better, we'll be out of business."

"You have Montcalm Lodge, don't you?" asked Jeanne.

"Sure, but it's small and the overhead is high because of all the staff and luxuries we have to maintain. That's our image and--Alex!" She suddenly found herself completely enveloped in his arms. "Alex--let me go, please"

Bette grabbed her husband by the collar.

"Hey, Jas! Come up here and help me get these hot dogs together!" It was Ray, waving at them from the pavilion with a pair of tongs.

"Right away, dear." She wriggled out of his grasp and whirled around, cocking her head quizzically for a second. "What's in that drink, mister?" She wanted to laugh and kid with him but she wasn't sure how held take it. Instead, she patted him on the cheek, saying, "You just calm down, hear? We can't be having affairs right here in front of the whole town." Then, she went up to help her husband in the pavilion.

Bette finally managed to get her husband to look at her. She glared at him with a stony face and started to warn him but she stopped when it was clear that he didn't see her. He had that same look she had seen before, in Savannah, when he had first noticed her new necklace. She shook him by the shoulders.

"Alex. Alex!" He scowled at her with the cruelest look she had ever seen and she shuddered. "What's got into you? Are you all right?" He was sweating profusely and as she looked closer, she saw that his eyes didn't blink. Not once.

"Alex!"

"Don't touch me," he muttered.

"What?"

Alex then blinked furiously for a few seconds, and rubbed his eyes until they were red. He grimaced and wiped sweat from his lips. "I said you don't have to touch me like that, Bette. I'll be all right."

Frank put his arm around Alex's shoulders. "You look a little feverish to me. Why don't you sit down and have some water?"

Jasmine's voice interrupted. "Come and get it, everybody!"

Alex and Bette followed the rest up to the pavilion. She finally let go of his arm when they picked up their paper plates and forks from the table.

"You're sure you're okay?" she asked.

Alex nodded. "I'm okay, really." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "A little tired, that's all."

For the first time, Bette relaxed. She felt a little better, now that she recognized some symptoms. "We won't stay very long. You still haven't recovered completely yet."

They waited patiently in line, while everyone helped themselves to Brunswick stew, barbecued chicken, hot dogs, potato salad, chips and drinks. Jasmine and Ray were serving, both standing behind card tables that had been set up to hold the food. The breeze off the lake had picked up smartly in the last few minutes and there was a moment of confusion when it blew a stack of plates off the table. Behind Jasmine, still snapping loudly, was the fire in the barbecue pit.

Bette piled her plate high with food and moved to take another glass of Cabernet from Ray. Behind her, Alex held out his own plate and let Jasmine fix it.

She gave him only a moment's glance and a big smile. "Thought you were a dedicated family man. Alex," she said in a low voice. She had Peach Blossom lip gloss on her lips and as she bent over, Alex could see the smooth curve of her breasts, creasing her scarlet tank top. He stopped blinking.

Oh, it's fine home i'm in, laddie.

Alex fastened his hand around her wrist, as she started to ladle some stew onto his plate.

"Now. Alex...."

When she tried to pull her wrist free, his grip tightened. "Alex, please, you're hurting me." But the grip tightened more. She squirmed and then tried to pry his fingers loose with her other hand. His grip only tightened further.

Her hand was turning blue and she wrenched it hard--yanked! it away, with such force that she fell against the brick side of the barbecue pit. She sat stunned for a moment, rubbing a swelling bruise on her arm.

"What are you trying to do, Alex? Scare me?" She was getting awkwardly to her feet when Ray and the others saw what had happened.

"How about diddling your own wife for a change," said Ray hotly. "I saw what you did over by that –"

But he never finished the sentence. For at that instant, the breeze off the lake became more than just a breeze.

Alex overturned the table with a great crash, sending plates and bowls and potato salad everywhere. A low growl escaped his lips, followed by a long, hollow laugh. And even as he laughed, a gust of wind roared through the pavilion with the force of a gale, scattering tables. The fire in the barbecue pit flashed and popped and erupted from under the grille, flames shooting up and out in all directions. One of them reached out for Jasmine's blouse.

There was a terrible scream and out of the confusion, a woman half-fell, half-ran, shrieking in pain, her back and neck a brilliant yellow sheet of flame.

She fled from the pavilion, fanning the fire even more, screeching. "GOD...GOD, HELP ME! SOMEONE HELP MEEEE!!"

Jasmine stumbled at the bottom step and plunged into the grass, rolling, rolling, over and over and over, crying and convulsing.

"SOMEONE...GOD...HELP!! PLEASE HELP!!"

Ray Stocker and Frank and Dick Mosley shot out after her. Red Beavers had come to the picnic in his Exxon Racing jacket and he tore it off as he followed the other men.

Frank ripped off his own shirt and raced down the cliff, slipping most of the way, heading for the lake. Red dropped down to his knees and beat at the flames with his jacket, trying to smother them and stop Jasmine from rolling any more. Mosley did the same, gouging out dirt wherever he could find it to throw on her back.

After a few seconds, they managed to put it out.

Jasmine lay moaning, crying and whimpering, on her side, breathing gingerly, her hands clutched into fists and her arms and legs bent at rigid angles. The skin on her neck and upper back was blistered red and she shook uncontrollably from time to time, lying there.

"You're gonna be all right, Jas." Ray bent over his wife and tried to put a comforting hand to her face but she jerked away, sobbing. "Just lie still now..."

Frank Costa scrambled back up the cliff and ran with a sopping wet shirt over to where everyone had gathered. Alex was standing behind the group, seemingly shocked by what had happened. Bette stood beside him and didn't react when Frank shoved them both aside.

"Put this around her back. We've got to keep her skin cooled down." He looked over at Mosley. "Chief—"

Mosley understood immediately. "Right. I'll bring the car around." He got up and trotted over to the parking lot across West Ramp Road.

"Is she going to be okay, Frank?" Ray's voice broke as he asked. He sat down Indian style and tried to comfort her.

Frank bent over to whisper something to Jasmine. She moaned a reply. "I don't know. We've got to keep her wrapped up in cold towels. Why don't the rest of you go down to the lake and wet down every piece of cloth you can find? We have to get her to the hospital before shock sets in. She'll start to lose a lot of fluid when the skin stops blistering and opens up."

"Goddam," said Ray. "What a thing to happen...you hear that, honey? Frank says you gonna be okay. Just lie still and we'll be on our way in a minute."

"It's terrible," said Greta. She swallowed hard, watching Jasmine try to shift a little. The pain was awful and she bit her lip and gasped. "That damn fire."

Bette stood quietly beside her. Alex had gone down to the lake with the other men; he seemed just as stunned as the rest of them. She had watched his face when he came down from the pavilion and walked--not ran--over. A definite change in expression, she was sure of it. At the top step, he had paused, a cold, dark contemptuous frown on his face. As he came to the last step, it was different. a genuine look of shock had replaced the sneer. That was when he had stumbled to his knees and gagged for a second, before getting up and coming over.

Dick Mosley's blue and white patrol car skidded on a patch of bare ground behind the pavilion. He left the engine running and hurried to the scene.

"Can she lie down in the back seat?" he asked. He moved out of the way while Frank changed compresses. The other men huddled around, ready to help any way they could.

"She'll have to," Frank said. "Help me get her up."

Red Beavers took her legs and Mosley and Ray each took a shoulder. Jasmine moaned while they carried her around to the car--her face was pale and she was slipping in and out of consciousness. The process was clumsy and painfully slow but when she was finally inside, flat on her belly with Ray crouching in the floor beside her, Mosley got in and slammed the door. He gunned the engine and his rear wheels spun seeking traction. The Plymouth bumped over the field until it reached the road, then screeched as its tires bit the asphalt and sped off toward town, siren wailing.

At the pavilion, Greta shook her head glumly. "Why?" she asked, of no one in particular. She started picking up some of the plates and utensils that the wind gust had scattered over the grounds. "Why?"

"Let's get this stuff up." said Jeanne. She climbed the steps and met Alex at the top, giving him a tight-lipped nod

"It's the least we can do, for now."
Chapter 5

1.

Monday mornings usually found Alex somewhere in the back of his store, checking supplies for the week. He liked to inventory his stock on Fridays and then re-check them again at the first of the week, to see if the weekend business had left him short of anything. Perry Book and Drug was a lot different from the last place he had owned--the Little Cambridge Bookshop, down in Atlanta. He had more than just books to worry about now. But he liked the challenge and, after eight months of new ownership, the store had increased its business ten-fold over what it had been.

Alex came out from the stock room and walked up Aisle 3, where the school supplies and paper goods were located. He stopped to pick up a pack of pencils that had fallen and motioned to Renee, his teen-aged cashier to follow him into the back. "Watch the door for me, will you Paul?" The druggist looked up from the counter and nodded. "I want to teach you a little more about bookkeeping, Renee."

She was a spindly fifteen-year old with light blonde hair down her back and Levi's too long for her legs. She followed Alex into the little cubbyhole that served as an office.

Alex sat down in the squeaky old chair he had purchased at the Atlanta Flea Market and opened up the ledger. "You remember what I told you last week about accounts receivable and accounts payable?" He looked up, expecting an answer.

Instead, Renee was staring down at him, "What's the matter with your eyes, Mr. Perry?"

He felt a surge of anger and just managed to hold it in. The girl was always asking too many questions. He realized then that his throat was dry and the Kliban Cat Calendar on the wall was blurred. He couldn't blink for awhile and only by conscious effort did he finally force his eyes shut. He swayed in the chair, fighting nausea. There was a ticklish taste of blood on his tongue and he swallowed. clearing his throat.

"My eyes?" He rubbed them until they were raw. "Oh...nothing, Renee. Nothing. Probably didn't get enough sleep last night."

She relaxed and said, "I know what you mean. Sunday nights are bad for me too. Even when school's out. I still get up early for some reason."

"Yeah, that must be it. I must be catching a cold." His throat was on fire. "Here. now, let me show you what I want you to do."

For the next hour, Alex explained the intricacies of accounting to the girl. She listened carefully, asked a few questions and seemed to catch on with little difficulty. Alex was glad he had hired her and congratulated himself on his good judgement.

They finished the lesson a little after ten and Alex followed her back out to the front of the store. He was pleased to see Frank Costa there, thumbing through the newest Popular Science at the magazine rack.

"Thought I'd stop by and pick up some things on my way to work," he explained. "Paul said you were in the back, conducting school."

"With my prize pupil," Alex said. He straightened some of the paperbacks in the book rack. "How's Jasmine doing? Have you heard any more?"

Frank put the Popular Science up and selected another magazine. He had hoped Alex would visit her at the hospital but he hadn't. Maybe it was better that he had avoided Ray Stocker for a few days but Frank wasn't one to put a confrontation off. He had learned that well enough in the alley behind Mr. Delaney's grocery store in Chicago. He chose his words carefully.

"Physically, she's going to be all right. Alex. Dr. Lawton is handling her case at the hospital and he says she'll have no permanent scars, thank goodness. She was lucky."

"It was a terrible thing to happen.'` For a moment, Alex saw himself naked in the woods, pinning Jasmine to the dirt, raping her bloody and unconscious. He shuddered. No. I'm in control. That didn't happen. Something burned inside of him like a hot blade but he made himself say it. "I guess I behaved pretty badly at the picnic, didn't I?" He forced his fingers to relax their grip on the paperback he had been holding and flexing. "I don't...I can't really explain it."

Frank squeezed his shoulder sympathetically. "I wanted to hear you say that. You've gone through a lot lately and I know how hard it's been."

"You think I should see Ray?"

Frank nodded. "I'm sure he'd understand. He respects you a lot--someday he wants you to go in with him on redeveloping the town square. He's told me so himself."

"We've talked about it. I like some of his ideas." Alex finished restocking the book racks and closed up the cardboard box. "Frank, aren't you going to ask me why I did those things at the picnic?"

''No," Frank chuckled. "You don't have to explain, unless you want too. You were tired, a little drunk, that's all. If I thought it was something else, I'd have you in my office right now. There isn't anything else to it, is there?"

Alex breathed a big sigh of relief. "No, nothing. You're probably right." How on earth could he explain the feeling—he couldn't even describe it himself? "Let's change the subject. All this talk makes me morbid. Why don't you let me show you around the store? I've done a lot of things since I bought it.''

"Sounds fine. I don't have to go in to the office until after lunch today."

Alex kidded him. "You must like doctoring in a little place like this—there's nothing to do."

They both laughed and Alex guided him on an extensive tour of the store.

He had bought it from Eliza Bell last December--it had once been the old Bell's Hardware but the widow had let the store fall apart in the years since 1950, when she had been attacked and nearly killed by the drifter. Danny Boyd. Alex had learned that while he was negotiating for the sale--not from Mrs. Bell but from Jasmine Stocker, who had sold them their home a few months before and who was the closest thing the Lake had to a real estate agent.

Selling the Little Cambridge Bookshop in Atlanta had netted him a considerable profit--the shopping center was expanding and the owner wanted the space to add to a parcel he was offering to a restaurant chain--and Alex had decided to take advantage of the low prices in Scotland Lake. Not only did he buy the old Bell's Hardware Store and convert it over several months to a combination book and drug store; he also had purchased several other decaying buildings on the square, with an eye toward either sprucing them up or converting them to new uses altogether.

"It was a great opportunity," he told Frank, as they stepped out into the small gravel parking lot behind the store. "I have to thank Jasmine--and Ray, of course--for putting me onto the deal."

He had bought the old Strand Movie Theater across the Street, next to May's Flower Shop, and a grimy Walgreens immediately beside his own store. For the moment, the Strand would stay like it was, offering Disney movies and the occasional war or horror flick. Right now, it was showing "Carrie" for the third time in a year.

As for the Walgreens, Alex knew he would have to do something. He had given it a lot of thought over the Christmas holidays and once the book and drug store was open for business, he had made up his mind. It was to become the Moonlight Café, a small, intimate restaurant that would specialize in deli-style sandwiches and other dishes. He knew he had been lucky to convince Hannah Burdette that her Reubens and sub-sandwiches would be a hit with the tourists.

There had been a good deal of grumbling among some of the older townspeople throughout the spring that a newcomer with such strange ideas should not be allowed to come in and buy up so much of the square. Alex had Jasmine and Greta Blanchard to thank for smoothing things over. And, he had to admit, Ray Stocker was right. The Lake's only profitable business was the tourist trade. It had suffered badly the last few years and a little new blood and some fresh ideas were exactly the tonic.

Frank and Alex were standing across the street from the store, on the brick promenade that led up to the statue of Daniel Boone. A stiff breeze had blown a few leaves into Frank's hair and he plucked them out.

"What about the rest of the square? You and Ray planning to take over the town?''

Alex let a big out-of-state camper pass by--waving at a little red-haired girl in the back window--before answering.

"Hardly. There are still some bad feelings about what I've done. I don't want to make any more enemies here but I sure do wish the other storeowners would fix up their places. It's a disgrace. No wonder the tourists go speeding through. Look at it." Frank had to admit he was right. The south side of the square was easily the best kept, with its scrubbed brick and board fronts and window glass. Five establishments dominated that side of Scotland Avenue: Perry Book and Drug, the Moonlight Cafe and the Post Office and Western Union office were all in the same block. The Sirloin Saddle and Keene's Hardware were next to the Post Office, but separate. Across Ashwood Drive from Alex's store, a Dairy Queen and a Minit Market did good business, especially in the summer.

Clockwise around the square, starting at nine o'clock, one would find the Trimble Hotel, now a dilapidated, pseudo-Colonial edifice with the most literate graffiti in town, traced out on its dust-caked windows; the Mountain National Bank, the Police station and Town Hall at twelve o'clock and on the east side, behind Daniel Boone's back, the Strand, May's Flowers and the old Ida Stallings house, now the Public Library and Museum. Alex shook his head. "You see what I mean? It's pathetic that they can't understand what's happening."

"Maybe we could ask Sam Burdette to introduce a motion at the next Town Board meeting," Frank suggested. "With his interest in the bank, he'd stand to make some money on improvement loans."

"Yeah, and you know how much chance that would have on passing, don't you?"

"With Joe and Manny and the rest...exactly zero. The forces of goodness and right strike out again."

They were about to cross the street again and go inside the Moonlight Cafe when Frank pointed.

''Look up the road there." It was the camper that had nearly run a red light a few minutes before. A few hundred yards beyond the Dairy Queen, it had pulled off onto the shoulder, with what looked like a flat tire.

"Let's go see if we can help," Alex said. They walked down to the end of the sidewalk, crossed Ashwood and then trotted up to the spot and introduced themselves.

It was a young family they encountered. "My name's Entrekin, Jimmy Entrekin." said the crew-cut driver. He wore a T-shirt that was now streaked with grease and dirt and read RUGBY PLAYERS EAT THEIR DEAD. He had a blond wife and three children. The little red-haired girl's name was Kimberley.

"Looks like you could use some help," Frank said. The right rear tire had gone completely flat and strewn about the dirt were all the parts of the jack, unassembled.

"Yeah," said Entrekin, wiping sweat off his forehead with his hand, "The damn jack's busted. I slipped it under the bumper and started working it, but it shot back out and fell apart. Liked to took my whole leg off."

"I bet Ed Keene has one," Frank said. "Wait here and I'll run down to see."

Alex put his right hand under the fender and rocked the vehicle back and forth. It probably weighed four or five tons.

"We don't need a jack, Frank."

"We don't? What are we going to use--our hands?"

Alex had stopped blinking. He slipped his left arm out of the sling and squatted down, rocking on his heels. "1 think we can lift this thing ourselves."

"Are you crazy? Not with that shoulder of yours."

Entrekin shook his head. "It weighs eight thousand pounds, mister."

"Bend down, Frank. Let's at least try it."

"Alex, this is no way to impress a doctor. Be sensible about this, now--you know you can't lift this--" He stopped when Alex's back straightened. "Alex--" He rushed over to grab one end of the fender before it crashed down on his friend.

"Alex, come on...let go."

Alex said nothing. His arms quivered with the strain but slowly and carefully, he managed to lift the entire back end of the vehicle. When the rear tires were completely off the ground and Alex's face and neck bulging red with the exertion, the others shook their heads in amazement.

"I'll be damned." Entrekin muttered. He wet his lips nervously. "You training for the Olympics or something?"

"I don't believe it," Frank said. "Alex--"

"Just...get...that...tire...changed," he grunted. Frank saw that his eyes were opened wide; he thought they might burst out of their sockets.

"Sure...you bet, mister," said Entrekin. He pushed his wife aside and set to work, twirling off the screws. When that was done, he tugged at the tire and off it came, bouncing around a bit. He wrestled with the new one until he got it on, then tightened up the screws again, all the time. keeping a close watch on the man who had lifted his eight thousand pound, brand new, five-speed with overdrive Dodge camper right off the ground. His face was pouring sweat by the time he was through.

"Okay, I'm through now." The way he said it made Frank think he wasn't sure what would happen next.

Alex gradually lowered the rear bumper until the tires took up the weight. He took a deep breath before standing up, then flexed his arms and neck for, awhile, rubbing his eyes and squinting.

Frank grabbed him before he collapsed and sat him down in the dirt. "Are you all right, Alex?'' His forehead was burning up. "Get some water, please." Mrs. Entrekin climbed into the camper and filled up a Dixie cup, handing it out through an open window. Alex sipped it gratefully.

"A little woozy, that's all." He asked for some more water.

"You ought to be unconscious." said Frank. He touched his friend's shoulder tentatively. "That hurt?"

"Nope. Well, a little, maybe. It kind of stings."

He rested for a few more minutes, accepting Jimmy Entrekin's profuse thanks and a few more cups of water. He got to his feet and dusted off his pants, saying, "Bette just washed these yesterday. She'll kill me."

Frank didn't know what to think. They said good-bye to the Entrekins and walked back toward the square. Frank watched Alex intently, half expecting him to faint on the spot. But he didn't.

"Damn you. Alex, you shouldn't scare a man like that. Have you been taking some kind of weird pills I don't know about?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary. Dr. Matrangos, in Savannah, prescribed some pain-killers, that's all."

They waited for the light to change before crossing the street. "I'll have to find out what Bette's feeding you. That's the best impression of Superman I've ever seen."

Alex laughed. "Not bad, huh? I even surprised myself."

They stopped on the sidewalk, just outside the Moonlight Cafe. A little chalk board hanging on the wall beside the door told them Hannah was offering black bean soup for lunch that day.

"How about a beer and sandwich before you go to work? On me. I'm so hungry, I could eat a horse."

Frank didn't know whether to laugh or not. "I believe you."

They opened the door and went in.

2.

Greta Blanchard was glad for once that Cathedral Caverns was closed on Mondays for maintenance and clean-up. Ordinarily, she was only too happy to get back to her office in the rear of the Visitors Center. And she did have an appointment with Sam Burdette at the bank Tuesday morning. But today, it was different. She had been thinking again – "that thinking'll give you nothing but grief," she had once told her son Jack--and she didn't really want to be around people for awhile.

She had started washing the upstairs windows an hour before, with her favorite Merle Haggard cassette in the portable tape deck she often took to work with her. It was cool for a late August morning and she enjoyed the feeling of physical work for a change, the sharp smell of gasoline and grease wafting up from the front driveway, where Jack and Sandy Stearns were tinkering again with the motorcycles. As she squirted some cleaner on the glass and rubbed it around real good, she couldn't help but realize how much like his father Jack had turned out to be.

A few inches taller, maybe, but the same shoulders, the same thick neck and crooked grin. Even the gestures are the same.

She had met Neville in May 1936—God, was it that long ago?--when she had been working for Robert McNeese along with her sister Norma as domestic help, which the McNeeses surely needed to keep that beautiful old mansion up. It was a brunch, wasn't it? A formal brunch, for furniture buyers from all over the East Coast, on a Saturday, she remembered. She had been disappointed that she couldn't go with her family into Asheville, like they always had.

Neville's Dad, Jason, was pretty well off, for a farmer in the Lake. Neville was driving him over to meet all those big shot New York people--"Men With Money" as her grade school teacher Mrs. Detwiler would have put it, in her best Tallulah Bankhead impression. And the old Ford truck wouldn't start up again after he had dropped his father off. He'd rung the door bell and was standing there like a grumpy old scarecrow with his hands jammed into his pockets when she had answered the door.

Well, it wasn't love at first sight. She laughed at the thought. But over the next two years, Neville courted her and dated her, with an obvious eye on marriage. He told her years later that he liked her because she never really acted like a lady; she was too loud and energetic and rambunctious and about as far from petite as you could get. Greta smiled and moved over to the other window in the room. She had to admit that Neville's attentions eventually had their intended effect. They got married in the High Haven Baptist Church, in June 1939.

It wasn't hard to see a lot of Neville in Jack. No sir, not hard at all.

Lord, how he would treasure a moment like this.

Jack put down a socket wrench and got on his Harley-Davidson, trying to kickstart it. It sputtered, started up and then died almost immediately. Frustrated, he beat a fist on the handlebar and got off to see what it was this time. He'd always had a bad temper and he scuffed angrily at the tool chest, knocking it over. Sandy was sitting on top of his helmet, a few feet away.

Greta watched them for a moment. Her smile faded as she thought of something else, something she didn't like to think about. She dropped her cloth and squeezed her eyes shut, try- ing to prevent the image, but it was useless. It was always useless.

No matter how hard she tried, she could still see Neville's mutilated body, limp like her old rag doll Miss Beans, lying in that frozen pool of blood in the Caverns. It was an old rerun that she couldn't wash out, as clear now as it had been on that icy cold day in January 1958.

She shivered and swallowed hard. The swirl of dirt on the glass in front of her formed a pattern that she hadn't noticed before--a grin, a silly, lopsided mouth smirking at her. Greta threw her rag at it and hurriedly wiped the thing off. Something Jack had done. Probably. She rubbed the glass angrily until it squeaked.

She tried not to worry too much about him. The doctors at the VA Hospital in Atlanta had asked her to do that. "You'll only make it worse, if you hover over him like most mothers."

Well, damn them all to hell! What good was a mother if she couldn't love her only child.

She had tried, really, not to bother him. You're home now, Jack, you're really home. You do what you want, okay? I want to help. She cringed, thinking that. Sounds just like one of those long-haired, bearded, tennis-playing, pot-smoking, rockin' and rollin' VA doctors. Shit. They were all suffering through medical school while Jack was in a filthy cage in Ninh Binh.

She watched from the bedroom window, cleaning the same glass pane over and over again, while Jack and Sandy discussed something in the driveway. Jack tapped the gas tank with his wrench and pointed out a place underneath it. Sandy bent down to look.

He looked all right. On the outside, you couldn't tell held been a guest at the Hanoi Hilton. But he wasn't all right, not really. A mother could tell. Damn them! A mother could tell these things.

What was it--twenty months since he had been repatriated? Twenty months since she had first seen him easing down the stairs of an Air Force C-141 at Dobbins, on crutches. God, she had cried. And everyone had turned to stare and gawk at her, like some kind of circus oddity. Didn't they know she was crying for Neville too? Nursing Jack back from madness was the best thing that could have happened to her.

She cried because she had died in 1938 and gone to hell for a decade and a half. Now she was being resurrected and this time, she swore she wasn't going to blow it.

She'd bring Jack out of the pit no matter how long it took.

3.

Joe Burdette yawned and unbuttoned his work shirt another notch. He was tired and it was awfully hot and he was sick to death of working for that worthless scum Manny Soperton at the Town Pantry. He turned the pickup onto West Ramp and headed for the only place in town where he felt at home, except for the woods, that is. Smitty's Perch, at the intersection of West Ramp and High Road.

A cool vinyl seat and a frosty beer would be mighty good right about now.

Joe ran his hand over his gray crewcut and blinked at the road wearily. He scowled at feeling the big wart nestled in his left eyebrow; it made him look like one of those Russian premiers or something and he hated it. He ought to have it removed someday. Maybe next month he'd get around to it.

Traffic was light on West Ramp and Joe got the Chevy up to seventy for a few minutes. He liked this drive, with all the dense kudzu and weeds and pines coming right up almost to the road. If it weren't for those sissy-assed hippie types running the National Park Service, with all their ridiculous regulations made up in some air-conditioned office in Washington, he'd have joined the Park Service instead of letting Manny talk him into stock clerking at the Pantry. The cocksucker. Someday, Manny my boy, you and me are going to have to have a little talk. A fellow like me's got no business being shut in all day.

He had a king-sized thirst the size of an Arab's bank account and was glad to finally see the green and white neon of SMITTY'S PERCH come into view.

Joe pulled into the gravel lot and parked next to a familiar looking cream and mud-colored Duster. It was Walt Ames and he was glad of that. He hadn't seen Walt in several days and there was some business that needed to be done. This was as good a place as any. Joe got out and walked past a long row of other cars. Not an out-of-state tag among them, he noticed.

You couldn't ask for a better omen than that.

Inside, Smitty's Perch was crowded and noisy. The main room was shaped like a big horseshoe, with the bar at the apex and tables arranged along either prong. Not many tourists came by here--Smitty discouraged them by keeping the place as dirty as possible--and that was just fine with Joe and the other regulars.

He shut the door behind him and looked around for an empty place or a face he knew. Walt Ames occupied a table on the other side of the horseshoe, right next to the bar. Another man was there with him and Joe smiled. Louis Beems, big black Meerschaum pipe and all.

Joe went over and sat himself down.

"You two got some kind of conspiracy going here?" he said. He snagged the waitress Chloe by the apron and pulled her over, nearly causing her to spill her tray. "You know what I want, don't you honey?"

Chloe snatched her apron away and smoothed it out. "Yeah, and it ain't steak and potatoes." She went over to the bar and brought back two foaming pitchers, a glass and the bill.

"What brings you down to the city, Louis?" Joe asked. He poured one of the pitchers until it slopped over the edge of the glass, then reared his head and chugged for a few seconds.

His eyes stung but it was awfully good. He burped. "Get tired of all those horses?"

Louis Beems sucked on the pipe stem and replied. "Had business over to the bank, with your brother." Louis had a head full of bushy white hair and a bedraggled beard to match. He always wore the same tattered old gray herringbone jacket, and in all the years he had worn it, it had collected every scent that could be found in the Table Top Stables. "I'm going to put in an extension of my biggest bridle path and need to do some clearing back in that bush, behind my fence. That brother of yours sure don't much like lending to local folks anymore."

Joe refilled his glass. "That's good. He's finally developed some sense. Sam never was long on brains. Why you adding on to the riding paths, anyway?"

Louis shrugged and blew a puff in Joe's direction. "Money. My expenses are eating me up. And the business isn't worth a pea in a pot."

"You need more business like I need a third arm. Louis. What's the matter with you? We got more outsiders around these parts than we know what to do with as it is."

"Can't help it, Joe. A man's got to live."

Walt Ames scratched his prominent chin and shifted around in his seat. "We don't get as much business as we used to at Red's station either. Joe. We're just barely making it right now. Red had to let that Merkle kid go last week. He may get rid of Sandy pretty soon. I sure wouldn't complain too much if traffic picked up a bit myself. The damn Arabs are putting us out of business."

Joe couldn't believe what he was hearing. He regarded Walt coldly as the mechanic leaned back in his chair and smoothed down a few greasy black curls. He had enormous calloused hands, big enough to choke a man easily.

"What's got into you two?"

"It's a fine thing to say, ain't it?" Walt muttered. He stared down into his empty glass. "We're so beholden to outsiders now, we can't live without 'em. Just like your brother wants, too."

"Crap on my brother!" Joe fairly exploded. "Crap on tourists! You want to know why I don't like all those mealy-mouthed developers that keep tearing up our land for some goddamned fucking resort? It's this: they don't know a pig's whistle about the land. They don't love it like a wife, the way we do. They just dig it up, shove it around, pile it and grade it and make it into something it ain't. Every one of those bullydozers is the same. And it's people like you and me, Walt, that's got to stop them. Otherwise, they won't leave us enough ground to grow a turnip." He was drooling beer and out of breath when he got through. A few others were staring at him but seeing Joe's furious scowl, they quickly lost their curiosity and went back to drinking.

"I know it, Joe. You're exactly right." Walt spat out some juice into his glass, then disgusted at the sight, pushed it away. "But what're we going to do? The Lake's got no other work for us."

Louis harrumphed. "We all going to wind up being porters at that Mountcalm Lodge someday, anyway. Waiting on rich businessmen from Atlanta and Florida. It's coming and we can't stop it."

"I'm surprised at you. Both of you. Hell, I'm embarrassed at you. You got no more spine than that antsy brother of mine." Joe had a leathery, pockmarked tan to his face and all the lines and furrows deepened into shadow when he got mad. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, a stubby index finger poking at the air. "We're not giving up the fight yet, not by a long shot. We're fighting for our homes--at least, I am and I'm going to make you fight too, whether you want to or not." Walt set his jaw and listened. It was all you could do when Joe's brown eyes blazed like that. Joe was quiet for a moment, thinking. He looked up from the table, first at Walt, then at Louis, who squinted back at him. enveloped in smoke. "You know what we're going to do?"

Walt put a hand on the man's am. "Joe \--.

"It's time we quit talking and made our concerns a little clearer to the townsfolk, don't you think?"

Louis shook his head. "That's over, Joe. We're too old for that sort of thing now."

But Joe Burdette wasn't listening. He'd already made up his mind. Pa, you know I'm right. "I think if this recession thing doesn't slow down the developers a bit, it may be time for the Mountainmen Pursuit Club to hold another hunt." He sort of half grinned and poured himself the rest of the first pitcher. "I think it's about time."

"I don't know about this," said Louis. He saw Walt tracing the grain of the table wood with a finger nail, squirming uncomfortably at the idea. "I kind of depend on tourists now. The locals don't do much riding anymore and I need that outside business." He set his pipe down carefully on the table. "Besides, there's Chief Mosley to think about."

Walt looked up abruptly when Joe strangled a great big laugh. It sounded just like that old male cat he had throttled the other day.

''Don't you worry none about Mr. Mosley, Louis. This time, he did chuckle. "We'll have no problems from him, I promise you."

4.

At forty-five years of age, Red Beavers had lost every last tuft of hair he had ever owned but he hadn't lost the agility that owning a full-line service station on Scotland Avenue South at Branch Road had given him. And as the 3:00 p.m. bell of the Summit Methodist Church pealed across the town, he was glad he hadn't, because the cars and trucks were pouring in to be gassed up hot and heavy and he was short of help. He swore a new oath every time the treadle rang that he would never in his life give Walt Ames the afternoon off on a Monday again. It was all he and Sandy Stearns could do to keep up.

"Tell that damn truck to back up!" he yelled out to Sandy from the office. Red scribbled the purchase amount down on the ticket and handed the clipboard to the woman to be signed. She did so and took her credit card. Red followed her out to the island. "Come on. boy, hurry it up. There's a line of cars, halfway up to the square." He grabbed a nozzle and went hunting for a gas tank in which to insert it.

By four o'clock, the worst of it was over and Red sank into his chair beside the tire display, exhausted. His uniform was soaked dark from sweat and he took a moment to wipe his forehead with his baseball cap. "God, what a day," he sighed and reached down to pull out a pad full of uncompleted work orders. He groaned as he counted them: six in all. He'd have to call Cynthia and tell her he would be late. And he'd have to lean on Sandy to get as much done by six as he could. Damn that boy. He knew he shouldn't have hired a minister's son. Guess I'll have to talk with Leo about him.

Red got up out of the chair wearily when he heard the treadle ring again. He stopped at the garage door on his way out and yelled at Sandy.

"Do the McCain's car first, son. I told you this morning it's gotta be ready by seven tonight. Bill's taking his family to Myrtle Beach."

He sighed and went out to check on the customer. He was surprised to see Dick Mosley's police cruiser by the pumps. "What can I do for you, Chief?"

Mosley was propped up against the door, reading some official-looking paper. "Fill 'er up, Red."

"Sure thing." He put the nozzle in and went around front to get the oil and battery. It was a matter of pride with Red that he hadn't succumbed to the self-service bug that was sweeping the country. He had called Top Flite a service center for more than twenty years and he meant it. But it bothered him a lot these days that nobody appreciated that. "Looking over the want ads?" he asked, indicating Mosley's paper.

The Chief smiled. ''No. Something from the county. Bunch of BS, really." He went over to the vending machines, got himself a Seven-Up and came back to stand by the open door. The police radio crackled with an occasional voice, mostly from the other end of the county. "How's business?"

Red propped his elbows up on the pump and rubbed his eyes. "Today, great. Overall, terrible. Traffic's way down. Chief. The price of gas is enough to scare a ghost. Nobody's doing much vacationing this year, at least not to this area."

Mosley nodded and took another sip. "Yeah. Thanks to OPEC. I haven't given so few speeding tickets since I came here." "Maybe we ought to put up another traffic light."

They both chuckled. Mosley rubbed a good growth of black stubble on his chin. "You ever see much of the Perrys, Red?"

"A little. They're like most newcomers, though. A little slow to make the rounds and meet folks."

"What do you think of them? For outsiders, I mean."

Red thought for a minute. Across the street and up a slight hill, he could see the Appalachian County Scarlet Eagles grunting through their afternoon practice. They had gone 5-3 last fall and everyone had counted that a tremendous success.

"The Perrys are good people," Red decided. "For city folk. That Alex is a strange sort, though, don't you think? Something about him, especially lately. Since that picnic the Stockers held, he's been acting kind of queerly, if you don't mind my saying so. I know he was in that accident and all but even so, he's got to the point where he's almost as unpredictable as Jack Blanchard. Gives me the creeps."

Mosley sucked idly at the bottle, before finally draining it. He was inclined to agree with Red, but not for the same reasons. He'd known Jack for years--the boy was like a wild animal at times, especially since his Daddy died, but most of his antics were harmless, if annoying. He and Sandy Stearns often dared each other to do a lot of things they shouldn't but Jack could be handled if you knew how. At least, he could until he'd gone off and joined the Air Force.

Alex was different, somehow. Mosley had to admit that lately he'd found the man's presence a little uncomfortable himself. Wasn't that a fine thing to say--him an officer of the law and scared off by a bookworm like that? No, this isn't Louisville any more. That's behind you now. Still, it was hard to describe. The feeling had strengthened since the Perrys had come back from Savannah. Everybody had noticed it at the picnic--you could tell from their faces, from their eyes and the way they whispered to each other. It was like Alex emanated something, an electricity or something, that made everybody nervous and edgy. Just like before a thunder storm. That was it.

Mosley wondered out loud. "You think Alex really understands mountain ways, Red? You think he'll fit in here?"

Red shrugged and heard the nozzle pop out of Mosley's tank, spilling some gas. He went back and topped off the tank, then screwed on the cap and hung the nozzle in its cradle on the pump. "Hard to say, actually. You want my opinion?"

''Sure."

"I don't think so. I like the man, personally, but he's just not one of us, you know? Too many new ideas. Ray Stocker's like that too but we put up with him. Everybody knows that Ray can't even get out of bed without some new project to get him going. It's like breathing to him."

Mosley nodded. Red always made good sense. He'd learned to rely on the man's wits whenever something was troubling him.

"Yeah. You're probably right." He peeled off some bills to pay for the gas and Red dug down deep into his coveralls for change. Mosley got back into his car. But he didn't start it right away. Instead. he draped his arms over the steering wheel and thought for a moment.

"Red, come back over here a minute." He had already gone off to check up on Sandy in the garage.

"What is it, Chief?" He bent down and leaned over the window sill.

It was a hard question and Mosley tasted bile thinking of it. "You ever hear anything about the Mountainmen Pursuit Club anymore?" He stared right into the speedometer when he asked it.

Red's next breath was slow in coming. He looked down at the concrete and scuffed at the treadle, stepping on it long enough to make it go off. He was leery of the answer; Walt Ames had muttered something about it that very morning, when they were on their backs together underneath the May's Flower Shop delivery truck. It didn't figure. Or maybe, it was just that he didn't want it to figure.

"Nope," he said, finally. He thought about staring the Chief right in the eye, to make it more believable. But he didn't--he knew he couldn't bring it off.

''You're sure about that?"

Beavers nodded. "I expect that's just talk. You and I both know that Walt and them are too old to go tramping around in those damp woods. Besides, what is there to hunt? Damn developers already drove the deer way far north of here."

He could see a barely perceptible tightening around Mosley's lips. Red hoped his own swallow wasn't as loud as it sounded to him. The Chief moved his head slightly, so that he could study Red out of the comer of his eye. They glared at each other that way for almost a minute, heedless of the fact that a new customer had just pulled into the station.

They were both thinking the same thing. It can't happen again, can it?

Red blinked first, when the new customer tapped his horn. "I gotta go, Chief. See you later." He trotted off to service the other car.

Mosley gripped the steering wheel hard and wet his lips. His hands had been trembling the whole time.

5.

It was nearly 10 p.m. that evening when Alex Perry turned out the lights at the store and pulled the door behind him. He locked it carefully, then walked across Scotland Avenue toward the statue of Daniel Boone. It was a warm, pleasant night, and he wasn't tired at all. He told Paul that there was no need for him to deliver that prescription to the Blanchard house. "It's for Jack." Greta had said. "Something prescribed by the VA doctors." Alex told the druggist to go home—he seemed exhausted anyway. "I'll take it up there myself."

It was only a ten-minute walk down Ashwood, past the Town Pantry and turn left onto Park Street. Practically on the way home.

Alex waited for the light to change. It seemed to take a long time, so finally, he walked against it.

He was pleased that a long day in the store didn't run him down like it used to.
Chapter 6

  1.

Jeanne Costa was in a good mood as she finished her coffee and set the cup down next to the sink. It was just barely light outside and through the window, she could see a sliver of moon low in the sky, partially obscured by the big elm in their backyard. She picked up her purse and stopped to primp a little in front of the mirror by the carport door. She smiled, thinking of what Frank always said about the freckles on her nose.

"Makes you look like a pom-pom girl."

And they did too. She fluffed her calico blond hair a bit and decided she'd have to do. The lighting in the Caverns never did her features much good anyway.

Greta Blanchard had called her last night, right after dinner. She had reminded Jeanne that she had an appointment with Sam Burdette at the Mountain National Bank today, to see about an improvement loan to fix up the little cafeteria in the Visitors Center and maybe expand the gift and novelty shop. She'd said she would probably be there all morning--"You know how Sam is about lending money"--and would she please be a doll and open up the Caverns for her? Jeanne agreed to, even though she knew she would have to get there an hour earlier, to get the place ready for the first tour.

She liked Greta but the woman could be an imperial pain in the ass when it came to running the Caverns. She was more finicky than Morris the Cat. For once, it would be nice to have a little chat with Martha Ridley, the cashier, and catch up on some town gossip without Greta constantly badgering them to do this or that. Really, the woman was as tight as a drumhead with money. She ought to hire some more help for the staff. Jeanne backed her Olds out and drove up Rutledge Street, crossing Scotland Avenue to Cowles Road, where she turned right onto Wickham. The Caverns were a fifteen-minute drive northwest.

She was grateful for the light traffic and looked forward to the coffee and doughnuts Martha would bring in. With an hour or so of quiet, she could plan her day better, maybe adding a few touches to her memorized speech, as she led her charges through the convoluted tunnels and corridors of Cathedral Caverns. Greta had hired her as a tour guide two years ago and by the simple expedient of staying around when, one by one, Greta slowly drove the other girls to quit, she had become senior guide for the entire Caverns and someone, she had convinced herself, that Greta simply couldn't do without.

It was high time she got that raise she had been promised.

Jeanne loved to drive Wickham Road in the early morning. To her right, the view was intermittently blocked ty massive rock walls, stepped back from the road in terraces to keep debris and boulders from interfering with traffic. But to her left, only a sparse band of hickory and pine trees shielded a lovely vista, dominated by the silvery fingers of the lake's northernmost branches and the mist-shrouded valleys beyond. A long line of graceful green hills poked their summits above the mist and ran down the horizon in a whimsical zigzag until they curved around and under the roadbed and out of sight.

It was a quarter to eight when Jeanne wheeled the Olds into the parking lot and turned off the engine. She took her bulky key case and went over to the iron grille of the main entrance, unlocking the padlocks. The gate squeaked a little as she opened and shut it. A powerful amber spotlight illuminated the narrow limestone passageway she would be taking her group through in another hour and a half. Jeanne walked back up toward the porticoed entrance of the Visitors Center and saw Martha pull up in her Datsun.

"Hi, Martha," she called. Martha Ridley was a stout, black-haired woman with a slight limp and a fetching grin that made her a big hit with the tourists. "You bring the doughnuts?"

Martha held up a box. "Cream-filled and jelly tarts, today, Jeanne."

"Good." She unlocked the front door and held it for Martha. 'We can eat in peace this morning. Greta won't be in until after lunch."

"Why not?"

"That meeting at the bank, with Sam Burdette."

"Oh, that's right. I had forgotten." Martha giggled as she closed the door. "Wait till you hear what Sue Kemmons did the other day."

Jeanne was turning on the lights and setting the thermostat. "I'll get the coffee and you can tell me all about it."

The two women ate and talked until a few minutes before nine. Martha had to unlock her register and put the money tray in it, making sure the roll of print-out paper was full and would feed properly. She went back to the closet behind the counter and got her well-worn seat cushion, not noticing in the dim light of the one bulb that the chest full of brochures was slightly out of place, askew to the wall.

Jeanne had some paperwork to do and she dispatched that in a few minutes. There were other duties to be performed before they could open for business: straighten up or replace any of the flyers and brochures on the counter that were missing, unlock the restroom doors (Jeanne was puzzled that the ladies' restroom was already unlocked--she thought she had locked it Sunday afternoon), make sure they had a good supply of maps by the lighted display of camera supplies, replenish the bowl of caramel candies in the gift shop that everyone filched out of without paying.

It was just after 9 A.M. when their first customers arrived: a family of four, with two children. The man yawned sleepily and let his wife say hello for all of them. She listened intently as Martha explained some of the brochures and seemed impressed by the beautiful four-color stills taken inside the Caverns by professional photographers. Their children, a boy with a blond mop of hair and a girl with a big bandage on her right arm, occupied themselves in the gift shop. Jeanne kept an eye on them.

Others trickled in so that by 9:30, a moderate-sized group of ten had gathered, purchased their tickets, picked up the requisite pamphlets, bought a few postcards and some souvenir cave pearls to take home and were ready to get underway. Jeanne could see that it was going to be a slow day, which she usually hated, but today she didn't mind. She got everybody's attention and had them gather around her by the door.

"The tour lasts one hour: half an hour in, half an hour back out. For those of you with cameras, the lighting is good and we think you'll find a lot worth photographing. The best aperture is around F/30 or F/45, we've found. We have plenty of film for you, too."

She winked at Martha and led the group outside. They strolled down the sloping walkway toward the gate, shoes clumping on the boards that were set right in the side of the stone cliff next to the Visitors Center. A stout rope railing didn't make the group any happier but Jeanne was used to it and coaxed them on. There was nervous laughter in the back and a big sigh when they finally made it to the gate. Jeanne laughed—even that was a part of the routine.

"We're ready to go in, now. But before we do, I have to say one thing. Please stay with the group. Cathedral Caverns is quite large--in fact, it's the fifth most extensive natural cave system east of the Mississippi. There are still branches of it that have never been explored and I wouldn't want you to get lost, okay?"

A lady from Iowa asked, "How deep is it?"

Jeanne was already inside the gate. "From this spot, the lowest point is Pinnacle Falls and the Indian Burial Chamber. Both are more than 520 feet below us. But you needn't worry. The path we're taking has a gentle slope and there is an elevator if you need it."

They followed her into the main hall and the light fell off dramatically. The group bunched up and paused for a moment to gape at their first view of Cathedral's iridescent blue boxwork and scallops, parabolic ripples dissolved in the thin limestone walls. A spotlight glinted off the crystalline veins and gave the impression of human skin, flayed open and nailed to the rock.

Their steps echoed hollowly as Jeanne described how the water carried calcite and other cave minerals in solution to all parts of the complex, carving, gouging, dripping and flowing into all the weird and incredible shapes they were witnessing.

"How cold does it get in here?" someone asked, as they were squeezing through a narrow tunnel called the Snake's Gullet.

Jeanne turned around and walked backward for a moment; she knew the path by heart and could have taken the tour blindfolded. "The air in the upper chambers stays a constant 42 degrees. Further down, it drops off to about 38. It never changes, of course. These are, by the way, technically called secondary caves, formed by chemical dissolution of soluble rock. Many of the most famous caves were formed this way, such as Carlsbad or Mammoth Caves." She moved against the wall and pointed down a steeply sloping branch to the right. "We make a turn here."

The wooden flooring creaked as the group descended through the Ice Veils. Delicate capillary tubes and vertical shafts of reddish-brown meandered like blood vessels across the walls and over humps and domes and ridges of ice. Massive "draperies" hung in deeply shadowed niches near the ceiling, itself a forest of needle-like crimson and white stalactites. Dazzling whorls of cave flowers were nestled in every crevice and cranny in the walls. Jeanne smiled at the gasps.

"All true stalactites have a little canal in their centers, where water is conducted to the end and drips down. As the water splatters hitting the floor, a bulb of mineralized matter starts building up, forming what we call stalagmites. Given enough time, the two will meet and form a column. In the next chamber, I'll show you a special kind of stalactite. Come on."

They followed her through a portal of teeth-like limestone claws and the little girl with the bandage on her arm shrieked in terror. Everybody stopped dead and shuddered.

Jeanne couldn't help but laugh. She especially enjoyed the shock of visitors when they first came into the Tower of Terror.

Giggling nervously, the group moved on, past eerily lit nooks in the walls, each of them a scene from some well-known horror film or fairy tale. Hansel and Gretel were stuffing the remains of the witch into her oven. Rumpelstiltskin wagged a finger at Rapunzel, whose golden hair shimmered as though underwater, until a closer look showed the light was being reflected off a tiny pool in the foreground. There was a fierce black dragon around one comer in the hall, bobbing ominously in the gentle breeze stirred by the group. The little girl began to cry and wrenched away from her brother when he tried to push her at the beast.

The walls of the Tower were lined with frightening and gruesome and grotesque caricatures of historical figures as well, a waxwork mausoleum of death and gore. There were squeals of delight and jittery comments as a French patriot was guillotined-- everyone jumped when the blade actually plummeted down and sheared off his head--and Jack the Ripper strangled a poor struggling wench in the gaslit fog of Whitechapel London. Frankenstein was there too, leering down at his admirers with a blood shot eye that actually closed and winked. So was Dracula, dribbling blood onto a lacy "napkin" of calcite. And the Wolfman and Grendel and a Tyrannosaurus chewing ferociously on the arm of a young girl so lifelike that almost everyone reached out to touch her arm, just to make sure.

Every hollow and furrow in the chamber was a face of some kind, ghastly purple, spectral, fanged or cobwebbed. A thousand of them, eyes glaring down on the group with evil lust and hellish fury, suddenly popped out, startling them. Invisible spotlights played their ghostly light all along the walls and ceiling, wavering just enough to give the sensation of motion to the faces. From somewhere back of them, a raucous chorus of hoarse laughter filled the room.

Jeanne shuddered in spite of herself. She had seen the show many times and loved to watch the reactions of first-time visitors. Even so, it was unnerving to her, because it seemed so real. With any imagination, you could easily feel the goosebumps rise. The Tower of Terror was a child's nightmare come to life and she had found that there weren't many adults who didn't have some chilling recollection of awakening in bed in some pitch-black bedroom, sweating and out of breath, visions of demons and gremlins and bloodsucking monsters on their tongue.

She shuddered again and rounded them up to continue.

The next level of the complex was known as the Cathedral, and here Jeanne paused for a moment, letting pictures be taken. She explained some of the formations as the flashbulbs popped, pointing out helictites, which looked like soda straws sticking out of the walls. The chamber itself was over a hundred feet long by sixty-six feet wide, with a minaret-like ceiling reaching as high as a hundred and twenty feet. It was one of the showplaces of the tour and the most spectacular feature of all was the formation known simply as the Organ Pipes, a vast, convoluted sheet of tubes and calcite fingers, bunched together into a curtain extending from floor to ceiling and sparkling blue and gold and crimson and arctic white under the illumination of the backlights. Most of the group clustered at the base of the Pipes to read the plaque describing its creation, while others searched the room for the best camera angle.

After a few minutes, Jeanne led them on, further down a labyrinth of twisting tunnels. They passed some of the less famous of Cathedral's sights: the Serpent's Crest, the Jungle of Mirrors, where glassy onyx-like slabs jutted up out of the dirt at crazy angles, smooth enough to partially reflect an image, past the Beehives, mottled clumps of calcium carbonate that looked like huge hornet's nests, the Fingers, a row of great, crooked stalactites curled like a sharp talon. They reached the 500-foot level by slithering through Dead Man's Pinch and then they heard it. A deep rumbling hiss ahead of them, somewhere around the next turn.

The anticipation was palpable as the group approached the sound. Jeanne asked for silence and took them through a small cove called Devil's Garden. When they emerged on the other side, they were standing on a narrow ledge protected by an ornate iron railing full of curlicue designs. Below, was the thundering spray of Pinnacle Falls.

Jeanne moved behind the group and watched them stare in awe at the huge triple streams of water cascading over the edge. The noise was deafening and some of the people scrambled along the ledge to get pictures. A faint rainbow could be seen near the edge, forming a beautiful halo around the water as it plunged a hundred feet down into a foaming pool at the bottom of the chamber. The lighting had been designed to shade gradually from a deep, burnished red through orange and violet to blue and finally a brilliant stellar white as it crashed into the froth. To Jeanne, it always looked like a radiant watery stiletto balanced on its sharp point above the pool.

She let her people enjoy the spectacle for a few minutes, yelling answers to questions to be heard over the roar of the falls. She checked her watch a few times, making sure they weren't too far behind schedule. Probably, there wouldn't be a very big crowd waiting upstairs when they got back, but they still had one more big stop and then the long climb back out.

She finally got everyone back together again and they left the Falls through another tunnel further down the ledge. When the noise had diminished enough, she turned around and explained where they were going next.

"Our last attraction is one you may find a little grisly." She said this to whet their appetites. "If any of you want to turn back, or if you have a heart condition, please say so now.''

She warned them with a grim face. "Otherwise, we're going ahead."

There were a few nervous chuckles but no one answered, so Jeanne shook her head sadly (she had practiced that little move of pity for hours in front of a mirror to get it just right) and said, "All right. Don't say I didn't warn you. We're now heading for the Indian Burial Chamber."

The little boy with the blond mop of hair found a tiny pool of silvery smooth water just beyond where his right arm had been resting, on a beak-like projection of rock. He punched his sister in the arm. "Look, Judy. Watch this." And as the girl with the bandaged arm turned to see. the boy made an awful grimacing face at the water, his tongue hanging out like a man garroted.

''Quit it, Jimmy! Quit it! I'm gonna tell Mother you're pestering me again." She roiled the water with her finger—it was freezing cold and she pulled it out quickly and licked it.

The tunnel lights had dimmed even more and there was an edgy silence as the group followed Jeanne. The walls were sheer vertical cliffs now, grainy with streaks of dissolved minerals but otherwise flat and featureless. The flooring angled down a bit and up ahead, the tunnel began to widen, opening through into an eerie, pale blue tomb. Spindly stalks of perfectly conical stalagmites protruded from the floor, like phantom daggers plunged to their hilts in the sand.

Jeanne gave them her best grim and forbidding look and silently waved then past her, as she stood by the entrance. A few coughs and throat clearings were exchanged and the children eyed her anxiously. She followed them in.

There was a moment of somber quiet, as the group arranged itself around the bier of ice. Inside, the ruddy, weathered skin of an old Cherokee chief was visible, embalmed in a case of rime, a gentle look of peaceful meditation on his face. His lips were a frigid blue, but otherwise, the body had been well preserved and, as the shadows of the people moving around him shifted, it was hard not to feel that he might open his eyes and smile at any second.

"This is a Cherokee Indian chief," Jeanne began, "believed to have died from tuberculosis in the year--"

"Look!" screamed the little girl. Her voice broke in a terrified shriek. "LOOK THERE!"

Her scream shattered the funereal silence and everybody whirled around. Jeanne came running over to the shallow wall crevice where the girl stood shaking. her hand extended out in a rigid pose of horror. Jeanne swept her up into her arms and, as she cupped her hands over her eyes and screamed again, Jeanne looked up.

It was Greta Blanchard.

The sight sickened her and she put the girl down, feeling faint. Her stomach turned and she gagged on spittle as the girl ran into her mother's arms.

Greta Blanchard.

Oh, God...my God, Greta....

The woman was stark naked, her skin as icy blue as the light on the Indian's bier. Frozen red and black rivulets of blood clung to her thighs and abdomen, crystallized by the cold air to a frosty coating that looked like fluffed up hair. Her eyes were fully open, wild and agonized, while her mouth and cheeks were contorted with what must have been excruciating pain.

Jeanne gasped and felt a warm wave of nausea wash over her as she saw why.

She hadn't noticed it at first but Greta's feet were not touching the floor. She had thought the poor woman was somehow wedged back into the crevice but that wasn't it at all.

Not at all.

Jeanne could look at it no longer and dropped to her knees to keep from fainting. She hadn't taken more than a second's glance but it was enough. Never again in her life, no matter where she went or how hard she tried, would she be able to forget it.

Buried in Greta's stomach, right up almost to its badly dented head, was a rusty iron spike. It couldn't have been more than two feet long and it pinned the woman to a wooden pillar behind her as securely as if she had been a cockroach in an insect collection.

Jeanne couldn't hold it back any longer. She leaned over and vomited up her breakfast all over the sand, wretching hot and loud and painfully until her stomach and throat burned with fire. She rolled over on her side to rest awhile and happened to catch another unwanted glimpse of Greta Blanchard's face. Her tongue was out, like a desiccated desert rat's, swollen huge and pale blue, and chewed away almost to the gristle.

Jeanne tasted crud and started heaving all over again.

And somewhere behind her, there was a chorus of screams. The lady from Iowa had collapsed at the foot of the ancient Cherokee chief.

2.

"Get her legs first, men! I don't want her flopping all over the place."

Dick Mosley took out his old crusty handkerchief and wiped his mouth. There wasn't much there but he did it anyway, hoping his saliva would come back soon. His mouth and throat had been drier than dust for the past hour and he didn't think he could stand it much longer.

Jesus God Almighty. He felt his throat muscles tighten. Never—Christ...never a mess like this. He found an edge of the limestone projection around the crevice and gripped it hard.

Dr. Cyrus Haley stood next to him, gray vest and chain watch and spectacles and all, rubbing his black beard thoughtfully. Two men, Gilbert Boggins and Lenny Hudson, who ran the Tasti-Way Dairy a few miles west of Cathedral Caverns, were grunting and muttering as they worked the iron spike out of the corpse's middle.

"Damn but she's worked in there good,'' said Lenny. "How about gettin' me that crowbar, would you, Doc?"

Haley handed him up the tool. Mosley winced at the sound of a rib cracking. It took them nearly ten minutes to maneuver the spike back and forth, ripping open a massive gash in the abdomen and spilling several eviscerated organs in the process, before they could yank it out of the wooden pillar. The body careened over and knocked Boggins to his back when the spike finally lurched out.

"Get this thing off me, will ya?" He squirmed out from under it and got up, hurriedly rubbing crystals of blood and tissue off his arms and face. He gulped when he looked down and saw the gaping hole in her back.

''God-d-damn."

Behind him, Mosley heard the whimpering of Jeanne Costa. He went over to the entrance, where Frank was holding his wife against his shoulders.

"Don't you think it would be better if she went up?" Mosley started to put a sympathetic hand on Jeanne's arm but she shivered at his touch and pulled away, burying herself deeper into Frank's chest.

"Yeah, but not like she is now. We need to keep her warm or she may go into shock. Let me have your jacket." Mosley gave it to him and he draped it around Jeanne's shoulders. Her body shook with uncontrolled sobbing.

Cyrus Haley had unbuttoned his vest and bent down to examine the body. Mosley came over and squatted down beside him. Boggins and Hudson hovered in the shadows on the other side of the chamber, muttering to themselves.

Haley grimaced as he pressed lightly on the emasculated chest.

"What is it?" Mosley asked. It was awful to look at and he concentrated instead on the gold chain to Haley's watch.

Haley said something under his breath. He rubbed his hands in the dirt--the yellowish matter on them wouldn't come off. "Crushed ribs, Chief, for one thing. Her spine has been twisted like a pretzel. Bad lacerations on her neck, too."

"She been sexually assaulted?"

Haley shrugged. "You see it, don't you? There's no way to tell."

"Anything else?"

Haley breathed deeply and Mosley was glad to see he was human too. "There are strangulation marks on her throat but it'll take an autopsy to prove that. She was completely dis- emboweled by that spike."

"What about cause of death?"

"Any of the injuries could have done it." He stood up and studied the splintered hole in the wooden pillar, gauging its distance to the ground. "Frankly, I'm amazed.''

Mosley stood beside him and ran his finger around the edge of the hole, pricking himself. "What do you mean?"

"How strong do you think a man would have to be to lift someone like Greta up that high and drive that spike all the way through her?"

It was horrible even to think about. ''Maybe she was standing on something."

"Maybe but I don't see any marks in the sand or the walls. And it would take a pretty strong person to force that spike through the rib cage. You see the blunt end on it?"

"I saw it." Mosley noticed that Frank had taken Jeanne out of the chamber. Poor woman's hysterical and ought not see things like this. Hell, nobody should have to see this. He had ordered all tours into the Caverns cancelled for the rest of the day and the place sealed off. Haley was down in the sand again, on one knee, probing at Greta's shredded neck. It looked like a board full of nails had been dragged back and forth across it. "Got any ideas about who might have done it?"

Haley shook his head.

"What about motives? Money. Sex. Revenge."

Haley sat back on his legs and wiped his mouth and eyes. The cold air in the chamber had kept the stench down for awhile, but the presence of other warm bodies had raised the temperature and now the decaying flesh couldn't be ignored. "It's a violent enough death to consider revenge. But that would mean someone she knew."

Mosley refused to accept that. "Got to be a drifter. Like that Danny Boyd kid that raped Mrs. Bell back in 1950 or '51 or whenever it was."

"Mm-hmm. Or a mentally deranged person."

Mosley had hoped he wouldn't say that. The picture had been forming in his mind and he had pushed it away successfully for awhile but now it wouldn't be denied. He gulped at the prospect.

"Cyrus, do you know where Jack Blanchard is right now?"

The doctor was brushing dirt and other things off his suit legs. "Haven't the faintest idea. Why?"

Mosley asked the other two men. "Gil, you or Lenny seen Jack around?" They shook their heads slowly and shuffled uneasily, their shadows looming behind on the wall.

"Damn." Mosley slammed a fist into the palm of his other hand. Somehow, it had to come to this. There was no way around it and he dreaded what he might find out "Guess I'd better go have a talk with the boy." He nodded for Boggins and Hudson to come over and get hold of the body.

They had a long, sickening trek to get back to the elevator.
Chapter 7

1.

Raymond Stocker checked his watch for the tenth time since he had sat down at his desk to go over the monthly expense sheet for Nicoll's Island. 11:43 A.M. He realized with a start that he had been studying the same piece of paper for almost half an hour. The numbers hadn't changed. He hadn't really expected them too. It was hard to believe he was actually thinking about it though. Jasmine would just die. They had put so much money and time and hope into the park and what had it given them back?

Maybe it was time to sell the stupid place off.

Stocker got up from his desk and went over to the back door of the cabin-cum-office by the West Ramp parking lot. He pulled aside the shade and looked out. Through the window, he could see the Ferris wheel, slowly turning. and the roller coaster, whistling along its track (they had named it the Savage Serpent right after the park had opened in May 1963). He smiled ruefully at the sight of the nearly empty ferry pulling away from the dock. Six paying customers, five of them kids. Damn. He had to laugh. They had had ten customers all morning but there had been moments back in '63 and '64 when they would have kissed the Devil's horns for that many. She'd wanted to burn the place down a decade ago. I should have listened. But now, after all their sweat--

Ray Stocker sighed and went back to his desk. He wished the day were over. Jasmine was still up at Appalachian General and he had promised he'd be there to have lunch with her. Thank God, she'll be in out in a few days. He'd have to tie her to the bed though to keep her from doing too much when she got home. That woman's got jet fuel in her veins. But he loved her for being that way and maybe when she was well enough, they could have a talk about the park. About having children. Whatever.

Ray checked his watch again and heard the sound of a car crunching on the gravel just outside. He got up and went to the door. It was Chief Mosley and he went out to greet him.

"What's up, Dick? You want to take a spin on the Serpent today?'' His attempt at humor went flat when he saw the grim look on Mosley's face. The man was whiter than the ghosts he'd just had put in at their haunted barn on Nicoll's Island. "Something wrong?"

Mosley came up to the cinder block steps and kicked at some gravel. "Yeah, Ray. It's pretty bad. Greta Blanchard's dead."

"Dead? Greta--how? What happened?"

"I don't know. It looks like murder. Pretty gruesome too. She was found down in the Indian Burial Chamber, inside the Caverns, impaled on a wooden pillar."

Ray licked his lips nervously. "Impaled? Are you serious?"

Mosley didn't have to answer. The look he gave Ray was enough. "I was wondering if I could speak to Jack about it."

Greta dead?

He grabbed a hold of the railing to steady himself. It almost came off. "Jack isn't here," he said. All of a sudden, his voice dried up. "He didn't come in today."

Mosley squinted up at him. The sun gleamed fiercely off his forehead--it looked like a shiny helmet visor. He had a swarthy face and watery frog's eyes and took out a cigarette to light up. "Know where he might be?"

"To tell you the truth. Chief, I was thinking about firing the boy. He wasn't here Sunday either and came in late on Saturday."

"Is Monday an off day?"

"Yes, but he's expected to come in part of the day and help clean up and repair things."

"And he didn't."

"Not when I was here. I spent half the afternoon at the hospital though. Does he know yet? Has anyone told him?"

"I don't know." Mosley tossed the cigarette into the gravel after only a few drags. ''But I've got to find him. I know that.''

"The boy's hopeless. Chief. I know you don't like to hear me say that but he's always had trouble with authority. He's got no sense of duty or responsibility—he's a bad influence on my other employees and I just don't know how much longer I can put up with him. I want to help but--" He spread his arms helplessly.

"That doesn't matter now. You think he might be home?"

"Probably working with that cycle of his. You--"He stopped when Mosley mumbled "Thanks," and ran back to his car. He fired up the engine and put it in reverse. "--you tell him he'd better be here tomorrow morning at seven sharp or he's gone!" He watched the car disappear around the turn in a cloud of dust and gravel.

Christ, I gave the boy a job, didn't I? I tried to help him when nobody else would.

He went back into the cabin and slammed the door.

2.

Jack Blanchard always liked it when Greta wasn't around and he had the house to himself. A guy could go crazy with that woman slobbering all over him night and day. What did she think he was--some kind of reject from a nursery school? Twenty-four fucking years old and she'd have me in Pampers if I let her. The thought of it made him giggle and he groped for that damned roach clip and took another drag.

It made his head spin and if he closed his eyes, he could imagine he was right up there with those Russian cosmonauts. shaking hands with Stafford and Slayton and the other bunny.

He giggled again. Man conquers space.

He had the stereo up full blast, with all the windows shut. "BORN...TO...BE...WIIIIIILD!! BORN...TO...BE...WIIIIIILD!!" God, he loved that song. He'd seen the Wolf in Sam Diego in '69, that Saturday before he'd shipped out for Southeast Asia. Him and Jill. Was that her name? He couldn't remember, exactly, and reached for the bottle of Stolichnaya on the nightstand beside his bed. Maybe it was Joan. What a butt--

"TERROR ON THE HIGHWAY .... "

Yeah, that's what he was. Jack hummed over the lip of the bottle, letting the vodka fumes rise up into his nose.

Terror in the skywav.

Those cosmonauts didn't know a hair off a fly's ass about flying. Take 'em down the Hanoi Pipeline and see what they think. You jink and you roll and you twist and you dive...and then you do the hokey-pokey and you turn yourself around, and that's how you get a SAM up your cute little tailpipe, isn't it Mr. Pilot-from-East- Lansing, Michigan-Home-of-the-Spartans Jim March—goddamn you all the way to hell and back? Why the hell didn't you bail out, you stupid sonofabitch?

Something approximating a human shape appeared down at the foot of the bed, an amorphous blob that wavered in and out of comprehension. Jack opened his eyes as wide as he could and burped. Whatever it was, it was tall and lean and mean and--

"Mr. Green Jeans!" He slung the bottle at the shape.

"Jack, I'm gonna turn that record off!" yelled Dick Mosley. He reached down and flipped the POWER switch. John Kay's growling voice died off into a buzz. Mosley stood beside the bed, watching Jack drool on the sheet. The boy had a white patch of skin under his right cheek, where the Vietnamese doctors had tried to graft some skin onto a bad burn. Mosley had always wondered if he had been burned when the missile hit his F-105 or later--in the prison. He'd never had the courage to ask.

"It's me, Jack. Mosley."

Jack blinked and belched, snorting a laugh at the smell of it. He raised up on his elbow and poked Mosley in the stomach. "Let me tell you a thing or two, C-Chief." He slurred so bad you could barely understand him.

"Yeah?"

Another burp.

"Don't never mix this JP-4 kerosene with marijuana, okay?" He stubbed out the roach on the bed, burning a nice hole in the sheet. "You wanna know why?"

"Why?"

"'Cause it gives the old afterburner the runs ......" He flopped back on the pillow, convulsed with hysterical laughter.

Mosley went over to the closet by the bathroom door. He rummaged through the clothes and almost immediately, spotted one of Jack's blue work shirts. There was a small dark stain on one sleeve, near the cuff. He sniffed at it but it was dry. He took the shirt down and brought it over to the bed.

"That blood, Jack? Right there?" He put it into the boy's clutching fingers. Jack frowned.

"Cut my finger on that damned cleat at the dock. Umm, Saturday. See?" He held out his right index finger. Mosley could see a small scar, just below the fingernail.

He put the shirt aside. It would have to be tested up in Asheville. Mosley watched Jack turn over and curl up like a cat. He still had two unopened bottles of vodka to go. He'd already drank three. Mosley felt his stomach protest at the thought. It was possible Jack had been drunk for several days.

He might have done it and never known what he had done.

He did have Ray Stocker's statement that the boy hadn't been to work since Saturday. Today was Tuesday. There was time, he had to admit. But his mind rebelled and wouldn't think what the facts suggested. It's going to be a long night. He picked up an unopened bottle and stuck it in the pocket of his jacket, then shook Jack by the shoulder.

"Nap's over. Come on, get up, son. Pack yourself some clothes."

Jack moaned and brushed his hand away.

"You have to come down to the station. Come on--" He yanked him to his feet and made him stand up, finally leaning him against the bathroom door. "Fresh air'll do you good."

Jack snickered. "You gettin' fresh with me?"

"Yeah, sure. Come on. Here's a nice shirt for you."

He got the boy dressed and walked him carefully down the stairs. They went out to the car, after Mosley had made Jack find the house keys and lock the place up, and got in. Jack's head lolled around as the Chief started up.

He backed out of the driveway and said, "Your mother's dead, Jack. She was found in the Caverns this morning." He hoped the matter-of-fact way he put it would soften the blow.

Jack gargled some spit and slouched further down in the seat. He started punching buttons on Mosley's police radio. Then, he laughed. "She's going to teach me how to cook a tuna fish casserole this week. You know that, Chief?''

3.

Sam Burdette despised having lunch with his brother any time but this particular day was especially bad to have him around. He was due to meet those federal men from the Department of Transportation right after lunch, at 1 PM. In fact, to see about getting a grant to patch up Scotland Avenue south at the Early Bird Truck Stop, where the big eighteen-wheelers had broken down the asphalt making that turn out of the parking lot. But Joe had showed up just as he was walking out the door and put his arms around Sam's shoulders in that way that Sam knew meant there was business to be talked about.

Viola Burns brought them sandwiches and coffee from the Waffle House and they ate in Sam's office in the Town Center.

Sam cut up a slice of the ham steak and stuffed it into his mouth. He was a meticulous, well-groomed man with a membership in the Highlanders Country Club in Asheville and carefully cultivated air of affluence and taste. His cream-colored silk shirt bulged at the buttons whenever he sat down in his Mayor's chair. "You like that jacket or something?"

Joe Burdette swallowed half a grilled cheese sandwich whole and slurped some coffee. "That idiot Manny's had me back in the produce section the last few days. Gets awfully cold back there." He was wearing a bulky light green vinyl hunting parka, even though it was over ninety degrees outside. "At least I don't go around in fag shirts like that."

"You'll never have the money to buy something like this, Joe. You won't find this kind of look in an L. L. Bean catalog."

"Thank the Lord." Joe crunched on some potato chips. "That's the difference between you and me, Sam."

"What is?"

"I still remember where I came from. You forgot, when you took over that damn bank and started playing John D. Rockefeller. Got yourself a nice big Tu--door style house up on Bears Knob and a maroon Cadillac and a suit like that--shit, you know how hard Pa would laugh if he could see you?"

"I can do without knowing."

"Thing is, Sam, that you don't fool anybody but yourself. Not around here, anyway. I know what you are." He winked at his brother over the Styrofoam coffee cup. "And I'm sure going to see to it everybody else knows too."

Sam plucked a piece of parsley out of his white beard and laid it down carefully next to the pineapple ring. "You always been jealous of class, Joe. What'd you want to see me about, anyway?"

"You heard about Greta Blanchard this morning?"

''Yeah, Mosley phoned me from the Caverns about ten." He daubed at his mouth with a napkin. ''Damn shame. She was a good woman. Been here a long time."

''Yeah. She was solid. She kept that old coot McNeese off our backs too. The Chief got any clues?"

"He's already picked up Jack for questioning. Got him over next door right now."

"Jack, huh?" Joe got up and wandered over to a wall map showing Scotland Lake and its surroundings in relief. He traced a route from the center of town out to the Caverns and back with his big index finger. "Does he figure the boy knows something?''

"I haven't heard anymore."

Joe continued staring at the map for a few moments, apparently lost in thought. Then, he spun around and cocked his head back, eyeing his brother coldly. "You know, I think it might be a good idea if Jack did it."

"What are you talking about?"

"For the town, I mean." Joe smirked, knowing how much that would be believed. `'It would be better for all of us if Jack were arrested and charged with Greta's death."

"Your head bothering you again?"

Joe's smile abruptly faded and was replaced with a scowl. "Now, Sam. I don't expect you really meant to say that, did you? You know you're supposed to look after me and keep me from hurting myself anymore...Pa told you that a thousand times."

"Pa's dead, Joe."

"I know that, brother. But just the same, I'm your responsibility. I can't be trusted to know what's best for me. And you sure wouldn't want someone as filthy and uncouth and crude as me embarrassing you in front of guests, now would you? Just think of what'd happen to your social stock at the country club if it got around you had a brother like me. Hmmm?"

Sam chewed on his lips until they hurt. He remembered that time Joe had chased him home from Mrs. Best's classroom with a baseball bat for being too brainy in school—he'd twisted his ankle in a ditch by their driveway and fallen into the mud and Joe had jumped him and--

Damn. Damn him to Timbuktu. He'd worn a beard ever since to cover up the scar.

"What if Jack didn't do it?"

Joe shrugged. "Be good for the town's image if swift justice were meted out. Better for the tourists, you know." He snickered.

"Since when did you ever give a hoot about tourists?"

''Since the day Hell froze over. But I don't like nosy outsiders asking questions where they got no business. Like State Police outsiders, for one."

Sam squirmed in his chair and fumbled with a cigar he had extracted from his desk. "I don't know about this, Joe. Putting pressure on Mosley--"

"I'll be generous," Joe said. He hitched up his jacket and opened the door to leave. "You can have a choice; that ought to make it easier for you. Either Jack gets arrested or--" he gripped the doorknob until his knuckles were white "—I'll straighten things out myself."

Sam watched him go and then realized he hadn't been breathing for the last few minutes. He sucked in some air and felt the blood rush to his head. All of a sudden, he was dizzy.

Don't ever charge a wild animal when it's wounded. Hadn't Pa told him that once?

4.

In Scotland Lake, the Town Center and the police station are part of the same building. a dusty red brick and mortar structure on the north side of the square, somewhere off Daniel Boone's right elbow and set behind a pair of gimpy-looking apple trees that no one could quite bring themselves to cut down though they had died years before. There was a small paved parking lot behind the building, with places reserved and marked off for the town's bureaucracy and an entrance off Wickham Road. There were six cars parked in the lot at noon on Tuesday, one of them was Chief Mosley's blue and white Volare. A closer inspection of the vehicle would show that someone who was very sick had been retching on the floorboards.

Inside the station, Dick Mosley grappled Jack Blanchard about the waist--the boy was well over six feet and had been a sure-handed tackler as a linebacker for the Appalachian County Scarlet Eagles in 1964--and walked him up and down the urine and sweat-stained hallway between the cells, trying to keep him from passing out again. Jack wobbled back and forth, doing a little two-step whenever the mood struck him and dredging up every bad joke he had ever heard in the United States Air Force.

"Ninety-nine Hanoi gooks on the wall,

Ninety-nine Hanoi gooks,

Shoot one down and kick him around.

Ninety-eight Hanoi gooks on the wall.

Ninety-eight Hanoi gooks on the wall –"

They had reached the end of the hall and Mosley turned him around and walked him back up toward the office. "Jack, come on. Jack, snap out of it. We gotta talk." He shook him a little, then grabbed his collar just in time to keep him from crashing head first into the water cooler. Jack crumpled to his knees and threw back his head, laughing. Sweat poured down his cheeks and his eyes glistened.

"Hey, get this one, Chief--two Gls are strolling down Hai Ba Trung Street in Saigon. And there's this big pool at the end, in a place called Me Linh Park, by the river. One of –"

"Jack."

"No wait--listen." He patted Mosley on the face. "You'll flip over this one." He coughed harshly for a few seconds and drooled over his shirt again. "Two GIs, see? And one of them falls in the pool. The other one comes over and yells out, 'Hey, Jose, what are you trying to do, drown?' And the guy in the pool comes back to the surface and says, 'No way, Manual. I'm taking a bath in case Ho Chi Minh asks me for a date. '" Jack hit his head on the linoleum floor laughing.

Mosley squatted down before him and flicked some water he had gotten out of the cooler into Jack's face. ''Come on, come on, Jack. I have to ask you some questions."

"Questions." It came out slurred when Jack tried to pronounce it. "My name Jose Jimenez." He started giggling but stopped when Mosley shook him by the lapel.

"Jack! Goddamn you, Jack, listen to me. I want you to think—"

"Oh, I never think when I'm on duty--"

"Think, dammit! I have to know where you were all day yesterday. What were you doing?"

"Yes...yesterday?" He squinted, parrying Mosley's hands with awkward fists. "When am I....am...I here?"

"Today is Tuesday, Jack. What were you doing Monday? You didn't go to work."

"Fah!" He burped and drooled some more. ''Stockyard is a sourpuss...."

"Were you home? Was your mother home, Jack? Think now. Come on—let's get up again."

The front door opened--he could tell by the rattling of the Venetian blinds--and Sam Burdette appeared up at the head of the hall, hands on hips. He was a big barrel of a man and he pursed his lips sympathetically at the sight of Jack.

"I got to see you a minute, Dick. It's important."

Mosley swore under his breath. "I'm just now getting through to him, Sam. Can't it wait?"

"I'm afraid not."

Politicians are a pain. He escorted Jack back to his cell and shut the door, making sure it was securely latched. Jack stood there, leaning against the bars like a mummy, still muttering jokes and giggling.

Mosley motioned Sam to sit down beside his desk, while he fixed himself some coffee. He grimaced at the taste of it but drank some more and settled wearily into his own chair, closing his eyes. "I feel like I've been up for a week. What time is it?"

Burdette made church steeples and cat's cradles out of his fingers. His digital watch glowed when he pressed the button but he couldn't face Mosley with what he had to say.

Hearing no reply, Mosley's eyes slowly opened. Ho scrutinized Sam's face as the Mayor studied the pattern of tiles in the floor. "You reading an obituary, Sam? What's wrong?"

"Tired, I guess. How's it going? Has Jack confessed yet?"

Mosley snorted and drained his coffee. "He hasn't even been charged with anything."

"That's what I want to talk to you about."

Mosley had heard this kind of talk from politicians before. The tone of voice forewarned him--he didn't need any words to know what was coming. It had been the same in Louisville-- that bitch city Councilwoman had used the same haranguing voice. He wondered if he would ever get the stench and taste of the Steam Palace and its human trash out of his system, or the broken body of Lolette Chaney out of his mind. He shuddered. "What have you got in mind, Sam?"

For the first time, he looked up and Mosley could see that the man's face was as pale as the marble steps outside. He must have known it too, because he swallowed hard and lowered his head again. "I want Jack charged with the murder of Greta."

Mosley let his chair swing him upright with a clunk. He leaned forward on the desk. ''I can't do that, Sam. We don't have enough proof."

"You've got probable cause. He did it while he was drunk."

"And the motive?"

Sam shrugged. "He's temporarily insane or something. You know Jack."

"Yeah, that's exactly the problem. I do know Jack. And it's not likely held get this far out of whack."

"What about that shirt, the one with the blood on it?"

"It's in Asheville now, being examined. But my guess is it's Jack's blood. just like he said." He tapped out a cigarette and flicked his lighter, puffing until he was enveloped in smoke. "What are you up to, Sam? Why you got it in for Jack all of a sudden?"

Burdette shook his head, this time looking up for good. "I'm concerned about the town. The town's image. You remember how it was a few years ago, when we had all those odd killings. People panic when you can't give them a suspect. They don't like to think that they could die for no reason at all; there's got to be a rational explanation for it. They think Death's got to go by the rules, like some damned federal agency. But it doesn't. Hell, Death makes the rules and we try to get around them for most of our lives. This town just about fell apart a few years ago; you want that to happen again? You want people calling you up at three in the morning, scared shitless `cause there's a noise in their attic and they haven't got the nerve to go up and see whether it's a squirrel or something?" Sam took out a handkerchief--monogrammed Mosley noticed--and wiped his mouth and forehead. "Not me. Not again. Not in this town, ever again."

Not me either, Mosley thought. He had learned how to put that set of memories in some back closet of his mind and he'd done very well since the last of the murders in 1969, keeping the slithery old thing bottled up and quiet. He didn't need reminding that 18 people had died in seven separate but equally bizarre incidents. Failure was something he couldn't afford to dwell on. It was like an itch you dare not scratch, for fear of getting it infected.

"What you're asking--"

"--is for you to do your job, Chief. That's all. Go back over to the Blanchard house and look around. You ought to be able to find something that'll make the charge stick."

"I don't know, Sam.... "

Burdette got up and stuffed his handkerchief into his back pocket. "You have to, Dick. That's an order. If I don't have a list of evidence on my desk by tomorrow morning –" he straightened up and tried to look official "—it'll go hard for you. I think you know what I mean." He cleared his throat and tried to affect the same kind of scowl he'd always seen Joe put on. Somehow, it didn't feel right but he walked out of the station hoping he'd gotten the point across. He didn't think he could do it again.

Mosley sat quietly, drumming a pencil on his desk blotter. He's telling me to charge Jack with murder. He had a lump in his throat. An old instinct told him not to question the order. He had been in the Lake long enough--nineteen years now-- to know better. Still, he stewed at the crude pressure and told himself that it wouldn't happen again. But that didn't help and he sprung up out of the chair angrily. He knew, deep down inside, that it would happen, again and again, until he faced the fact that he was a weak man, a spineless man, contemptible even in his own eyes. The kind of man who slept with a light on in the closet, to chase away shadows that he couldn't deal with.

He could taste the same furry residue in his mouth that he tasted the night his last deputy, Pete Porter, was killed. A crushed, rain and blood-soaked face, splattered all over the asphalt of U.S.19--he had run over the man himself, hadn't he--no, God, get me away from this\--and the note, taped to what was left of the skull: NEXT TIME IT'LL BE JUNE. The socketless eyes. The tread marks on his neck and forehead--

Damn. Damn all Burdettes to hell.

Sometimes. in the shadows of his bedroom, it was June's face he saw.

Mosley slung his desk blotter across the room, sending papers and pencils and notebooks flying. He stomped back to the cell where held left Jack.

Jack was lying on his back, right next to the bars, chewing on his fingernails. He saw Mosley standing outside and sat up awkwardly, grinning lopsidedly.

"Got another one for you. Chief. Get this—'There once was a whore in Saigon, who could give any man a hard on, until that day, when she talked her way, right into the sack with a Viet Cong.'" He chuckled and lay back on the grimy floor of the cell, kicking his legs like a baby.

Mosley unlocked the cell and stooped down. "Why don't you just shut up, Jack?"

"Hey, here's one you'll like--" He mumbled another limerick and another, but Mosley was barely listening, as he helped the boy up.

Murder. Goddamn murder, for Chrissakes.

Dick Mosley felt just sick.

Chapter 8

1.

It was an impromptu thing, the softball game that Jimmy and Marcy and Suzie Costa and the other kids had roped Alex Perry into participating in. He'd just finished Bette's Sloppy Joes and potato chips for lunch and he was due back at the store soon but he let Edna Littleton convince him and they got up a game in the little turnaround at the south end of Elder Lane.

Alex was nominated pitcher and Edna volunteered to be the umpire. The Palmer boy, Darrell, even said, "You look like an ump, Miss Littleton." Alex couldn't help but laugh at that and the woman took it good-naturedly enough.

It was Wednesday, late August in the Lake, and it was hot. The weatherman on Channel 4, Dave Kinney, had promised them a partly cloudy day, with late afternoon thundershowers and a mild night. School was only a week or so away for most of the kids and Alex noted that they played the game with an intensity and enthusiasm that showed how much they wanted to drive that thought from their minds. He couldn't blame them, really; the last week of the summer was the worst time of the year, when you were young.

Bette and Louise Palmer and Merrilou Stennis had decided to come down to the turnaround and watch and they sat together, legs tucked under them, next to a hickory bush, chatting, while the children played.

Alex drew himself a mound of sorts with a piece of granite he found and began to warm up. The Stennis' mailbox was designated first base, the metal water meter plate on the other side of their yard was second, and third would be an old piece of cardboard someone had found in the trash bin at the end of the Palmers' drive. Alex finished his warm up pitches--Jimmy was the catcher--and chuckled when Darrell came up to bat first, wearing an Atlanta Braves batting helmet too big for his head.

Alex submarined him and Darrell fouled off the first pitch. A few more pitches and they had their first out, a weak grounder to second base, nearly fumbled by Kelly Hudson, but thrown out with a few steps to spare.

The next batter was Eddie Dandridge, a lanky boy whose Dad worked at the Early Bird Truck Stop, a mechanic or something Alex seemed to remember. He worked the ball over for strike one and leaned in to get Jimmy's sign for the next pitch. Fastball, outside, came the signal. He wound up and threw, but the ball slipped as he released it and sailed over everyone's head into the bushes behind home plate.

"Watch it, Dad!" Jimmy yelled. He ran back to retrieve the ball while Edna waggled her finger, playfully.

Alex was mad at himself as he took the return throw. Come on Dizzy Dean, get the ball over. He wound up and threw again.

The game went on and Alex seemed to find a good rhythm. He enjoyed the exercise and didn't mind that his shirt was soaked with sweat after only a few minutes. He could change it later. He wondered if this was how big-league pitchers got, when they were in the groove--wired into the plate and unconscious of anything else outside of that tunnel from the mound to the catcher's mitt. It was great fun, exhilarating even, and he was so caught up in the feeling that he did not notice his eyes had long since ceased to blink and he was throwing automatically.

It was cold wherever he was, a chill March wind slicing through the bones. Damp, soggy, clammy and this time, he was going to shut her up for good, the worthless bitch. Lucille had been filling young Danny's mind with all kinds of crap and lies about him being possessed and it time to get rid of her before she spilled everything.

In the fall and winter of 1932, Earl's Court had that indefinable but pungent musty odor of decay about it. It was so easy to get in, through the back, through the livery and into the pantry, it was funny. He snickered, padding up the staircase in his squishy stockings, wordlessly, silently, sliding along the carpet to her room, nudging open the door and crawling up to her bed, with those gargoyle-bedposts grinning at him in the half-light.

You're going to be a very dead lady, dearie. Sooner than you think.

She must have been dreaming when she woke up with a violent shake and sat bolt upright, a scream caught in her throat. He didn't do anything at first, just enjoyed that wonderful cold rage and loathing in her eyes, the blazing fright, the gleam of hatred--by the fires of Hell itself, he loved that, he'd thrived on that for ages, for eons, it was the same from one epoch of Man to the next. Humans didn't change, damn them. It was so easy.

Then, the scream, a shrieking sound tearing past his ears. He laughed, loud, hollowly. He'd soon crush the very breath out of those lungs but why not enjoy it? He didn't hear the boy come in.

A shot. Daniel crying out, wild and staggering in the halo of light in the door, waving the pistol at him.

"GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT!"

Another shot and he felt the bullets enter--cold dense bugs burrowing into his stomach, his chest, his groin. The body jerked and he almost lost it. He laughed, showing them the holes, the little blood-swollen craters oozing stain onto the sheets. Laugh, damn it. But the laugh became a cry, then a sexual groan, as the body convulsed on its way down to the floor. He writhed and twitched--pain ripping him inside out. You wanted to know life, didn't you? Well, here's a little trick: the human body's mortal. It dies. All life does, chum. God's joke on us all. But I do love it—I DO SO LOVE THE FEELING OF FORM...I CAN'T HELP IT. They stole it from us in the Beginning, you know, but we'll get it back. Death makes the rules. Just wait—you'll be in Chaos too at the End, right there with all the rest of us. Laugh, dammit. LAUGH.

The memory fades here but not the feeling. All the windows were blown out and the air grew chilly, even frosty. The creek behind the house surged up over its banks and poured out onto the street, loosening the foundations. The bedroom flooded—my God, how can that be; it was upstairs, thirty feet above the ground—the walls buckled and he knew it was time to get out. Time to move on.

What a fine young body the boy has. Watch his hands tremble, the pistol clattering to the floor, watch him try to tear his eyes out--that's it, son, you go ahead and fight, claw at your neck, gag and vomit and offer whatever puny resistance you can. It's all the same, so easy, so nice, and I shall take you as I have every man, woman and child in this family for three hundred years. I'm one of you now and you know it. You'll not be sending me back, not ever. Struggle, scream, kick and cry—I love all of it. What intensity of feeling. It makes you glad to be alive, doesn't it? Oh, keep on, do keep on ....

And in the arctic twilight of that blustery March night, young, vigorous Daniel raped his mother Lucille, at the virile age of thirteen, raped her again and again and again, until she bled and cried and bit and drooled and finally succumbed to the welcome dank basement of unconsciousness. The boy couldn't stop and drilled her for another hour until he himself lapsed into utter exhaustion, the demon stilled, his aching hunger satisfied. He swallowed the flesh and gristle of her bloody lower lip, chewed off somewhere in that long, endless fever of love, and staggered out of bed. His eyes throbbed but he could not close the eyelids; some monstrous force pinned them open, to see and miss nothing of its new life.

He saw the broken, castrated body of Jacob at the foot of the bed. Groaning, he hoisted it up with the strength of ten men and carried it over to the window.

Outside, the rain-swollen canal waters were slapping the pier planks angrily and he growled as he spied a white cat gracefully slinking across the tops of the wooden pilings. It stopped in mid-step, hearing him, and stared up, hissing, back arched, claws unsheathed.

He got a good grip on the body and with a loud grunt, hurled it out into the backyard.

The cat shrieked--

\--and blinked--

\--and cried--

And, slowly, with the infinite patience of a sunrise, the tunnel opened up to light again and there was home plate, Jimmy signaling fast ball, high and tight.

The old brush back. Suzie Costa was up to bat.

His arm ached from too much pitching, but it was a critical inning and he had to back her off the plate again. He let the rhythm take control and got a good grip on the ball. He felt like a pitching machine, programmed to throw without stopping, just turn it on and slug away.

He reared back and slung it hard but somewhere in the instant before the ball left his fingers, he lost his grip on the seam and the ball spun when it should have knuckled.

Oh, it's a fine home you've given me, laddie, and now you know my deepest secret.

It sailed in a little too tight and struck Suzie right on the side of her head. She went down in a heap and lay still on the hot asphalt.

"ALEX!"

Bette and Louise shot over to Suzie's side and bent down to examine her. "Is she breathing?" asked Louise, helping Bette lift the little girl onto the grass. Everyone gathered around. Alex came running.

"The ball slipped," he said, squatting down. Bette glared at him. "Is she unconscious?"

"Look at that bruise.''

Suzie's hazel eyes fluttered open and she shifted uncomfortably, bringing a hand up to rub her temple. "Mommy?" she said thickly.

"Mommy's not here right now," Bette told her. "You just lie quietly for a moment." She stroked Suzie's hair, done up in a yellow-blond ponytail, while the girl struggled to focus her eyes on the ring of teammates crowded around her. She saw Alex next to Bette, a worried frown on his face.

For an instant, she froze at seeing Alex. Then, she squirmed out of Bette's grasp and swayed unsteadily getting to her feet. "You tried to hit me," she said, still rubbing her head. "I'm not going to play anymore." She backed away, her eyes never leaving Alex, until she nearly stumbled over the curbstone. Then, she turned and ran, back up Elder Lane, crying as loud as she could. A little black Pekingese named Magoo went barking after her.

Alex stood up. "It was an accident. The ball slipped out of my hands."

Bette lit into him. "You should have been more careful. I saw what you were doing, trying to brush her back from the plate. My God, Alex, this is only softball. You looked like you were in a trance out there. What's the matter with you?"

She wasn't being fair and it made him angry. "I said I was sorry, didn't I?"

"So what? What if you had really hurt her? I only hope it wasn't anything worse than a bruise. You scared her to death."

He took off the old glove Jimmy had loaned him and tossed it over onto the grass. "There's no use in arguing here, in front of all the kids. I'm going to change these clothes and go back to the store. That's where I should be anyway." He stalked off.

Bette forced herself to remain calm. She wanted to take the ball out of Jimmy's hands and throw it at her husband but it wouldn't do any good. She made up her mind to give him a good talking to when he got home though. The spells he had been having were coming more and more frequently and it was time to do something about them.

"Edna, you want to come up to the house and have some lemonade? I think we've seen enough softball for today."

"I'd love to, Bette." She took off her umpire's mask and smoothed out her hair. "That's hard work, keeping up with these kids. I'd love to tell you about Kindertown's new program this fall. I think Marcy'll find it a lot of fun."

"I'd like to hear about it," said Bette. She told Jimmy and Marcy to be home by five o'clock and said good-bye to Louise Palmer. "Tell me about it while we walk."

2.

Suzie Costa didn't go straight home. Her head hurt--she felt gingerly of the knot that had formed on her temple--and she wanted to be by herself for awhile. She crossed Park Street, after checking to make sure there were no cars coming and ran off into the woods behind the Palmer house, Magoo barking happily at her heels.

There was an old rotted-out pine tool shed back in the forest, not far from the turbid brown waters of Antler Creek. Park Street made a complete loop from where it first intersected Elder Lane and ran into it again a few hundred yards south of U.S. 19. Even though you could sometimes hear the traffic during the afternoon, when you were back in those woods between the roads, you could almost pretend you were in a jungle. The brush was thick, the kudzu deep and luxuriant and the trees so tall and full of leaves and branches that only a little sunlight filtered down to the dirt floor, even at midday.

Suzie had once followed Jimmy Perry to this secret hide out. She pushed the splintery door aside and stepped into the cool dark inside. There was a damp smell of dust and worms and pine needles. She was a little scared at first, but when she saw the three neat piles of bones stashed away in the corner, she relaxed. She hadn't been sure it was the right place.

She called to Magoo and the Pekingese scooted into the shed, coming-over to sniff warily at the bones. She had never really understood the game she had seen Jimmy play with them. She couldn't very well ask him about it; he had never known she was just outside the door, peering in practically over his shoulder that day. He talked about it to himself as he moved the bones about and made ghoulish faces and symbols with them--something that sounded like "Captain Mud 'n Bones." Something like that.

She wondered where the bones had come from. Some of them looked real old and she shooed Magoo away so she could set to work and figure this business out. She was so intent on making the same grinning face she had seen Jimmy make that she didn't notice her dog worrying at another jagged bone it had unearthed behind the door.

An hour or so passed and Suzie made and unmade several faces and stick figures but none of them seemed right to her. She frowned, wondering what to do next, when she heard Magoo growl and twisted around to see what it was.

His ears were perked up--he must have heard something. Another low growl. This time he stood very still, his ears laid back. Something snapped in the bush outside and he trotted out the door to find it.

"Goosy!" Suzie got up and brushed the dirt off her pants. Mother was just kill her if she saw how dirty she had gotten. "Goosy, you come back here right now!" She ran out the door after him and saw him streaking through the woods after a small brown animal. She'd have to run fast to keep up with him and she set off, worried that he might try and run across the street and get hit by a car or something. "Goosy! Goosy, don't you run away from me! Goosy, Mama's gone spank you good for running away like that!"

3.

Dick Mosley knew that all his police instincts said no but he just couldn't refuse the girl's request. Sue Kemmons stood over his desk, imploring him to let her see Jack Blanchard, just for a few minutes. She was a small girl, with a delicious giggle of a laugh that Mosley and everybody in town loved to hear. She had a cockeyed grin that dominated a very compact face, a mischievous elfin look that was only heightened by a tidy bun of blond hair that she often let drop in curls around her ears and cheeks. She made a little moue at Mosley and placed her hand gently over his.

"It'll only be for a few minutes, Chief. There couldn't be any harm in that, now could there?"

Mosley told himself that he was a professional about things like this. He watched her hands squeeze his affectionately. "You know it's against regulations, Sue. Unless you've come over to post bail."

"Bail? How could you do that to him. Chief? You've known Jack for years. Surely, you don't think he did it?"

"Personally, I don't. But that doesn't matter. There's evidence against him and until it can be checked out, I'll have to hold him."

"What is the bail?"

"Don't know yet. Judge Appling up in Asheville hasn't called back."

Sue pouted at him. "Now, Chief.... "

Mosley couldn't look at her. He extracted his hand from her grip and sighed. She had on her light green waitress's uniform and it swelled out tightly over her breasts, the delicate silver butterfly necklace dangling in the valley between. Already, his right hand was reaching for the key ring.

"I don't know why I'm doing this...but okay." He got up and led her back to Jack's cell. "Absolutely no more than thirty minutes, though. And no funny business back here, either."

He opened the cell door and let Sue in, then shut it behind her. He watched to see what Jack would do--he lay on his back on the torn-up mattress, seemingly asleep--but when Sue glared at him he shrugged and went back up front. He checked the wall clock and decided to give Judge Appling's office a call.

Sue sat down on the floor next to the cot and gently stroked his hair. "Jack? Jack, honey, you awake? You all right?"

His eyes popped open and slid around to see who it was, then disappeared under their lids again. "Mm-hmm."

"Oh, Jack, what's happened? How do you get into things like this?" She traced her fingers around his face, exploring every edge and curve.

"I'm a bad boy, Sue."

"Quit it. You'd better be serious, for once in your life. You can't bully your way out of this."

Jack swallowed audibly, his neck muscles bunching up like a fist. He turned over on his side, facing Sue, and opened his eyes. They were red and wet. "Where they got Momma now?"

Sue shook her head and leaned over to put a light kiss on his lips. "I don't know, for sure. Probably Beeson's, I guess. It's the closest funeral home. Are you sobered up enough to talk now?"

He nodded, grimly. ''Wish to hell I wasn't. Why'd you come over, anyway? I thought you didn't want to see me again."

She knew the question would come and was surprised that she still had no good answer. She had broken off their relationship after the incident at Sneaky Sam's, the argument over the check and the fight. That had been way back in January--ages ago. It wasn't that so much, she had to admit, but more the way he talked about things, about getting even, making up for a lifetime of imagined insults. She scratched his head the way you might rub an old dog. He had greasy brown hair but underneath, she knew there were scars on top of scars, all of them made even worse by the war. "I was concerned about you, that's all. Can't a girl show a little sympathy?''

''You never did before."

They didn't say anything more for awhile. Eventually, Jack sat up and yawned, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. He hunched over, elbows on knees, and stared morosely at the black scuff marks on the floor. Sue sat down on the bed beside him and put her arms around his shoulders.

"You know something, Sue?"

"What."

"Prison cells are pretty much alike everywhere. Give this place some gray stone walls and it could be the camp at Ninh Binh."

''Jack, don't. Stop feeling so sorry for yourself. You've got to start thinking clearly for a change. Not everybody on this planet is out to get you. you know."

"Jesus, you sound like my mother."

`'Maybe you should have listened to her more."

"Why--so she could sink me in her little swamp of misery, too. No ma'am. After Daddy was murdered, she started clinging to me like some damn kudzu vine. I was trying to breathe all those years, man; I couldn't get out from under her. That's why I had to go into the Air Force."

"She was just loving you, Jack. The only way she knew how. A mother's got to love and she didn't have anybody but you."

"You know," he said, standing up. "I see things a lot better since I came back from 'Nam. I got to hand it to those VC--they're great philosophers." He went over to the sink and splashed water in his face for a minute, then rubbed himself dry with a scummy brown towel. ''All that time I was supposed to be growing up, from when Daddy died until I joined the service--you know where I really was. Prison. It was just like the little bamboo cages they put you in when you're being taken to the compound. Just like that old French fort by the river, where I spent twenty months. That's what home was like to me back then. The one good thing about the gooks is that they can make you hurt without having to call it love or devotion or any crap like that. You know they have a device—it's a fascinating machine, really--where they put this wire up your butt, see, right next to your prostate, where it's real sensitive. Then, they run another wire around to your balls to complete the circuit. You're sitting there hooked up to a generator like a fucking light bulb and, oh God, Sue, you wouldn't believe how clearly you see things when they turn it on. It's the best teacher there is--you learn real quick and you don't ever forget. And, the funny thing is, all the time they're doing this, they're standing around smiling, laughing, joking, smoking cigarettes--American cigarettes, I mean—just having a great old time. It's funny to them, see, and after awhile, you know what happens? It becomes funny to you too and you laugh and scream and cry and your ears buzz and it's just comedy city all the way, until you pass out." He sat back down on the cot. "My mother was like that, especially when I came back from the place. She loved me and fed me and nursed me when I was sick and bought me shoes and baseballs and things and all the time, she was burning me up on the inside and never knew it. It's like you said, a mother's made to love. It's a day's work for her, just like it was for the gooks. Only she didn't know about all those wires I had in side of me."

Sue stared at the floor with him. For the first time, she wondered if she had done the right thing, coming over to see him. "Jack, can I ask you a question? You don't have to answer it if you don't want to."

"I'm well trained to answer questions, Sue."

He didn't have to say it that way. She curled her hair with her finger. "Did you kill your mother?"

He looked up abruptly and kind of cocked his head, studying her face for something beyond the words. Slowly, as if a great revelation were dawning on him, he nodded. "Yeah. Probably I did."

"Be serious, Jack. You can't joke about this."

"Sure I can. I can joke about anything. You know, the other day, Sandy Stearns and me were re-boring the cylinders in our bike engines. I liked to drilled off my right thumb in the damn machine and we both thought that was hilarious."

"Jack, please--"

"What do you want me to say!" He kicked the drainpipe under the sink angrily. "No! Hell, I don't know, Sue. I ain't had nothing but questions on top of questions for two days. I'm sick of it."

"Okay, okay. I didn't want to upset you." She tried to kiss him again but he pulled away and drew up his knees in the corner, sullen and quiet. "The main thing is this'll set back your recovery. That VA doctor said you were making progress readjusting last time, didn't he? He's not going to be too happy about your being in jail for murder."

"I don't care."

"That's pretty obvious but some of your friends do. I think I may be able to beg old man McNeese to help pay your legal costs. Your mother worked up there for years as a child and I think he would remember that and want to help. Anyway, I'm going to help you whether you want to be helped or not."

Jack slouched back against the wall and studied her.

"You haven't heard a thing I said, have you?"

Chief Mosley had come back and indicated her time was up. He unlocked the door and pulled it open. Sue stopped halfway out. "Not a thing, Jack. I guess I'm just too stupid to know what you're talking about." She shrugged, glanced up at Mosley and then disappeared down the hall.

The cell door latched to with a solid metallic clank.
Chapter 9

1.

Alex Perry finished putting price labels on the packs of aspirin and cough medicine and stood up to stretch his shoulder muscles pinching sharply when he lay the labelling gun on the shelf. Shouldn't have gotten into that softball game, he told himself. Held have to lie on the heating pad for hours tonight to get rid of the cramp between his shoulder blades.

He checked his watch: almost six o'clock. Renee had a short line up at the cash register and Paul was putting up his textbook on chemical toxins. Everything was under control but he didn't really want to go home for dinner tonight. He knew Bette would lecture him about beaning Suzie Costa that afternoon. accident or not. She was bad about not forgiving a simple, honest mistake. She didn't really stay mad for long, thank goodness and she did have some silly romantic notions about people. Alex liked her a lot better that way, especially when she put on her innocent ingenue look. He decided to call up Ray Stocker instead, and see if he wanted to have dinner somewhere. Maybe by the time he closed the store and came home for good, she would have given up on the lecture and would be ready to act like Bette again.

He went back to his tiny office and looked up Ray's number at Nicoll's Island. He dialed it and let it ring for awhile.

"Hello?"

"Ray?"

"Yeah?"

"It's Alex. Perry. You busy this evening?"

"No, unfortunately. Slow day today, as usual. Why?''

"I thought you might like to go get dinner somewhere. You and me. We could talk about that project you have in mind. What about the Early Bird?"

"Well, that sounds all right. I guess--nope. Wait a minute. I forgot. I'm going to be here all night, trying to fix the carrousel. The bearings are shot and Jack hasn't been doing his job lately, so—say, you seen that boy anywhere?"

"Mosley's got him at the police station, answering questions about the... murder. That's all I know."

"Well, I wish to hell I could get him back. The damn place is falling apart and he's the only one who knows how to fix half this equipment. Say, why don't you come over here? We could get a bite to eat at the Skyland Saloon. If you don't mind chill dogs and root beer, that is."

"(Laughing) It wasn't really what I had in mind but I'll come anyway. You need me to bring anything?"

"Nope. Some old jeans or something you don't mind getting greasy. I'm putting you to work."

"No free meals, huh? Well. I guess that's only fair. But I don't come cheap. I want two of those super foot-longs with everything."

"You got it."

"Be over in half an hour."

"Great."

2.

There was scattered traffic on West Ramp Road as Alex drove the two and a half miles out to the lake. Most of it seemed to be tourists, coming back from a day at Nicoll's Island, or a lazy afternoon swimming at the beach or sunning on the grass bluffs south of the boat ramps. He saw two cars with Michigan plates, probably on their way to Florida, he surmised. One from Virginia. New York. Ray was right. A sparse day, for August. With any luck, it would pick up for Labor Day.

He hadn't given any more thought to the spell he had apparently suffered that afternoon during the game. He was almost three weeks out of the hospital bed and every symptom the doctor had waned him about still persisted: dizziness, lapse of memory, nausea, bad headaches. Surely, by now, they should be easing up. If anything, they seemed to be getting worse. There were moments, like this afternoon, when he felt oddly disconnected from things, apart from the real pulse of life, on the outside looking in. Kind of like he imagined a doll would feel in some child's hands. Alex snorted, thinking of Marcy's Mr. Buttons. That was pretty silly, wasn't it? He reached the West Ramp parking lot and pulled into the gravel drive in front of Ray's cottage-office. The sun had sunk down below the trees and its waning light fractured into a thousand parts as it streamed through the branches.

Dr. Matrangos hadn't mentioned anything about spells of foreign memory.

Alex got out and walked up to the cottage. Across the Lake, bright floodlights already bathed the Savage Serpent and the Ferris wheel, while the faint strains of carnival music drifted over the water and were barely audible on shore. The ferry was still in dock, so he knew Ray had to be in his office. He could see lights on inside the cottage, through the curtains.

He studied the scene for a few minutes, drinking in the cool mountain air. There was a scent of honeysuckle and wisteria. It was peaceful and relaxing, a far cry from the hot, feverish thoughts that occasionally popped into his mind. What was the matter with him? He remembered reading an article in a magazine once about how the brain consisted of two independent parts, often at war with each other. He shivered as the breeze picked up. For fifteen years, he had been sure that his memory of "Billy" was only a child's nightmare, a fantasy encouraged by that dreadful house his Grandmother lived in at Earl's Court. And yet, it wasn't. "Billy'` was as real as the ground he was standing on right now.

He shivered again, recalling that ghastly sight. What if the other memories were true? What if he wasn't imagining it all?

"Alex, Alex, my boy, you look like you've seen a ghost." Ray's voice shook him out of the daze. He felt strong hands jostling him, gripping his arms. "I'm glad you could come. Got your working clothes on?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I can work in these, Ray." Alex shook his head. "I'm sorry. I was just thinking how beautiful the lake is at dusk. With the floodlights shining on it and all."

"I know what you mean. Come on. I'll take you over in the ferry myself."

They went around the cottage and through a turnstile—Ray had to deposit a blank ticket to get them in. Down some redwood stairs and onto the wharf. The ferry was a popular ride in itself at the lake. It was done up like an old Mississippi River paddle-wheeler, although its real motive power came from a pair of diesels underneath.

They walked out along the pier and crossed the gangplank, stepping over the low rail onto the deck.

"We call her the Empress Steamer," said Ray, leading them up to the pilot house. A huge, polished wooden wheel and brass fittings dominated the room. "She seats about fifty people and when she's not doing ferry duty out to the islands, we take paying customers on a ninety-minute cruise around the lake, with recorded narration. We even have chartered dinner cruises possible."

Alex watched the water gurgle around the stern as they pulled away from the pier. "Looks like you've got all the angles covered."

Ray beamed. "I have to, to make a profit. Expenses are out of sight."

The ride lasted only five minutes and Ray docked them expertly into their berth. He cut the engines and they disembarked, making their way through a gauntlet of ice cream and cotton candy and stuffed doll stands. They were empty, except for a pair of teen-agers sweeping up trash into a plastic bin.

Nicoll's Island was actually three islands, all connected by wooden footbridges. The Serpent, Ferris wheel, waterslide and most of the other popular rides were located on the south island, a tooth-shaped bit of land with much of the roller coaster tracks looping and diving across the lagoon between the two prongs of the tooth. The center island had the carrousel and petting zoo, plus such sedate entertainments as the Skyland Saloon, where at noon every day, you could witness a real shootout and barroom brawl, and the stagecoach ride, where you could be robbed. The north island was more sedate still, consisting principally of the picnic grounds, botanical gardens ("over a hundred and twenty species of exotic tropical plants") and a wading pool and putt-putt course.

Ray led him to the carrousel in the exact center of the island. It was a small merry-go-round, with wooden horses and unicorns and lions for seats. Through the trees on the other side, Alex could see the entrance to the "Haunted Barn" that his brother-in-law Ernest Luce had built for Ray as a part of the deal involving the Stockers arranging for he and Bette to buy the house at 52 Elder Lane. Bloodcurdling shrieks and groans and maniacal laughs emanated from the lizard's mouth that served as the entry.

Ray scooped up a toolbox he had left by the side of the carrousel and motioned for Alex to follow him. He weaved his way through the seats, snagging his shirt of the hoof of a dappled brown palomino and came up to the central motor housing. It was a wide barrel of gears and chains and shafts, black with grease and rust, now opened up to view. Ray hopped down into the dirt.

"See this part right here?" He tapped a pie-shaped wedge of ball bearings. over which a load-supporting plate slid to smooth out vibration as the carrousel revolved. "It grinds and gnashes and makes a terrible noise as it passes over. Somehow, we've got to get this bearing segment out and replaced. If we don't, the whole carrousel is likely to vibrate itself right off its mountings."

"Do you know how to do it?" Alex hopped down beside him and peered into the works.

"I saw Jack do it once. It didn't look too hard at the time, but now...." He shrugged and moved so Alex could get a better view. Alex started to stick his hand in. "Watch it. That plate is precariously balanced. If the wheel should start to slide, your hand could get crushed." Alex pulled his hand back out.

"I'd say you've got yourself a major problem, Ray."

Ray put the screw driver back in the tool chest. "No kidding. You got any ideas?"

"Well, why don't we see what it looks like when it's operating. Would it hurt to run it a little?"

"Not much. You can see where the bearings are being grooved from the weight not being evenly distributed." Ray cleaned his glasses with his shirt tail for a minute. "Okay. I'll go over to the operator's stand and start her up. You watch yourself though. Don't get too close to that housing. Sometimes, it spits grease and metal particles out." He crawled out and Alex heard his shoes clumping across the planking. He settled himself comfortably where he could watch the movements of the plates and gears without too much danger. It was a tight squeeze and probably not recommended by the manufacturer at all but perfection was for schoolteachers and God. "You ready in there?" came Ray's voice.

"I'm all set!" he yelled back.

The gears squeaked and groaned before slowly starting to move. They seized for a second, then continued, all the while grumbling and grinding. Alex leaned forward a bit, trying to study the action. A spark and a puff of white smoke startled him.

Without realizing it, and without knowing why, Alex lifted his left arm and held it poised just outside the housing. It seemed later as though the arm were some kind of alien appendage, something not his but detached, moving of its own accord, forward and into that clashing mechanical commotion. He watched it slide inexorably toward the bearing plate, as slowly as if it had been underwater, with no more control over its action than he had over the gears themselves. It was programmed by something stronger than his will and he opened his mouth to scream as first the fingers, then the palm and finally the wrist disappeared into the grinding. smoky compartment.

The thought of an ear-splitting shriek tickled his tongue and was strangled there.

He watched in growing horror as his hand slid along the edge of the plate, all the way to the end. Inches away, the heavy rollers ground their way toward the bearings, toward his hand, hot metal stalking the blood and flesh and sinew. Yet he could not retract it, he could not do it, could not even feel the damn fingers clawing and ripping at the plate, HE COULD NOT DO A THING AND HE WANTED TO SCREAM AT THE TOP OF HIS LUNGS HELP ME THIS THING IS GOING TO CRUSH MY HAND WILL YOU PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DO SOMETHING YOU STUPID HAND--

((it was pain they took from us first, laddie))

The rollers bit into the flesh of his hand and chewed their way through the skin, the purplish tissue, the bone, the veins, the arteries, shredding them like paper, as it rolled relentlessly in its track, bumping at the end over the sawdust remains of his tarsals and metatarsals before grinding on.

Alex hunkered down on his knees and blinked furiously as he tried to focus on his hand--what had been his hand. He started at his elbow and followed the thatch of hair down his forearm until the blood-engorged limb terminated in a stubby goulash of red and black grainy fluid. Cracked segments of chalky white bone lay in straight lines amongst the oozing garbage. Small chunks of cartilage still clung to some of the scraps.

He shook violently as a cold shudder worked its way down his spine. He felt faint at the grisly sight and clutched at his throat with his good right hand to force an arrested swallow down. He closed his eyes, bracing himself for the first tidal wave of pain.

But it never came.

Slowly, Alex opened his eyes. He was suddenly aware of the fact that the carrousel had stopped revolving, the next roller plate only a few inches from the remains of his hand. He willed his hand to move and, much to his surprise, it twitched and obeyed. Yet he felt nothing.

I've gone crazy. This is some kind of stupid cartoon.

All the feeling had gone out of his arm, the way it felt when the nurse gave you a shot and hit a nerve instead. Yet he could move it and he watched the thing slide back out of the housing, smearing blood and God knew what else. It was his again, the arm and hand belonged to him once more and he was momentarily relieved. He wasn't sure he wanted it back now.

"Hey, Alex!" The sound of a voice out of breath. Heavy steps clumping on the carrousel deck. "Hey, Alex!" Ray Stocker came up to the edge and stopped, just as Alex finished jam- ming his hand into his jeans pocket. "Did you see what the problem was?" Ray grunted as he jumped down into the dirt beside Alex, then stopped short and stared at his friend. "You all right? You look terrible, Alex."

Alex managed a weak nod and smile. "Got a little dizzy watching that thing go around, that's all. Really...I'll be okay."

"Jesus, you're as pale as the moon. And shaking like a—" He shut up when he kicked something with his foot. It was the bearing plate. Somehow, the force of the roller combined with the rigid grip of his hand had worked the plate loose and it had fallen out when the roller passed on. "—I'll be damned. How'd you get that out?" He looked Alex over suspiciously.

He knew he had to think fast. "It came out on its own, Ray. You must have loosened it when you stuck that screw driver back there."

Ray shook his head and gazed into the works. "Of all the--and after I got you out here to help me." He rubbed his index finger along some of the gear teeth and miffed the residue.

"That isn't grease. Feels like blood. Alex, did you cut yourself?"

Alex grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, just a little. I'll be all right, really. Don't worry." His head swam crazily.

"If you say so." Ray studied the housing for a minute. "You know what? I'm gonna let this go for now. You hungry, by any chance?"

"I could use a bite to eat."

"Good." Ray wiped the grease off his hands with a handkerchief. "I think I'll just wait till tomorrow to finish this. Maybe Jack'll be back by then--damn, can you believe it? Charged with murdering his mother. Jack's a little scatterbrained at times, but he'd never do a thing like that. I gotta think they'll let him go pretty soon, don't you? Here, let me give you a hand--I mean, don't get me wrong. Jack has problems and all you have to do is ask me. He's basically lazy and he's always been a hellion, did Jasmine ever tell you about .... "

Alex half listened to Ray's story. He was more concerned with getting to a restroom and cleaning up. And with hiding his left hand from sight. The two of them trudged back across the grounds toward the Skyland Saloon, on the other side of the square from the carrousel. He hunched over, to keep any part of his mangled wrist from showing. Ray paid him little attention. He wondered if you could go into shock from a bad injury, even if there was no pain. Not even a twinge or a tingle. There was no explaining it and Alex didn't try to. A purple and pink twilight descended over the lake and the sight of warm ocher light streaming out of the Saloon looked awfully inviting.

The staff had left at five so they were alone in the building. Ray told Alex the restrooms were in the back, down the hall next to the jukebox. "I'll clean up in the kitchen and get the dogs on the grille."

Under the stark fluorescent lighting of the men's room, Alex examined his hand more closely. It looked completely pulped and he grimaced when he saw that part of it had come off in his pocket. He shook off a shudder and checked it again. I must be imagining this. Amputation was the only word he could think of, maybe somewhere just above the wrist. He swayed unsteadily at the thought and grabbed hold of the towel dispenser to keep from falling. Some freak of nature had severed the nerves before pain signals could be transmitted. He supposed he ought to be thankful for that but it didn't seem right. He couldn't match any feeling with what he saw. And he didn't know which to believe: his eyes or...what? He wondered just what it would feel like to have your hand crushed in the gears of a merry-go-round. Wetting his face down from the sink, he decided he would rather not know.

When he came back to the front, he saw that Ray had already picked them out a table, next to the beveled glass window by the swinging doors. He had a half bottle of Moselle in his hands, pouring them both a drink. Alex muttered a silent Thank you.

"I thought I was getting root beer, Ray." Alex eased into the chair, careful not to remove his hand from his pocket. It made sitting awkward but Ray didn't seem to notice.

"Ah, well, we serve that too. I know you're disappointed but that's the breaks. We'll have to settle for this here crummy old wine." They both laughed.

Alex slouched sideways to get more comfortable in his chair. He wondered what he'd do if the pain came now. Don't think about it. Ignore it. Yeah. sure. "Ray, before you say anything else, I want to apologize for what happened at the barbecue, to Jasmine. It was a terrible way for a grown man to act and I'm sorry, really, for what happened. I embarrassed everybody, including myself, and I've been ashamed of it ever since. Can you ever forgive me?"

Ray licked the rim of his glass. "I already have. It was something that happened. The main thing is that Jasmine's not hurt bad. In fact, she'll be home in a few days. Hell, to tell you the truth, I'm secretly kind of proud that other guys find her so attractive. It makes me look good."

"Well, it's bothered me for some time. I don't know what came over me but I'm glad she'll be all right." Alex sat there, pondering whether to tell Ray about his hand; already a dark stain was spreading outward from his jeans pocket. He dreaded having to pull his hand out again. Change the subject. "I heard you were planning on forming a new development company."

"You heard right. That's one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. I surely am glad you came over--you're one of the few people in this town I can confide my projects to that'll listen seriously. I swear, Alex, the Lake is the most hidebound place I've ever lived. Did you know that Mr. Driscoll, the postmaster, thought the Wall Street Journal was some kind of radical Communist rag--he told me that himself last week."

"People are slow up here," Alex admitted. Slow, hell. he thought to himself, more like suspended animation. He never would forget that Saturday when he took Marcy and Jimmy up to the Table Top Stables. The kids rode those horses around the track for a solid two hours and Louie Beems leaned on the railing by the gate the whole time, like a grizzled old statue covered with moss, not moving, not even to scratch, barely even breathing. He had spoken to the man once or twice, just to ascertain whether there was any life in him. "But, to be charitable about it, they don't really have any reason to rush around. I brought my family out here to give up all that and I haven't really regretted it."

"I hope you don't," Ray said. "It'd be on my conscience, having sold you your house. But you have to admit that some of our citizens are a bit congealed."

"True enough," Alex said. "What kind of developments are you talking about?"

"Well," Ray drained his glass and leaned back expansively in the chair, ''what I had in mind was a kind of holding company, one of those real estate investment trusts, to buy into some of the other mountain attractions around here. The whole region's booming. Alex, even if Scotland Lake isn't, and I want to be a part of it. I was thinking of expanding the Mountcalm Lodge too. Maybe into something real snazzy and elegant, kind of a Greenbriar-type operation. What do you think?"

"No one ever accused you of thinking small."

"No and they never will."

"Honestly, Ray, it sounds exciting and I'm kind of like you: the area's bound to grow, in spite of throwbacks like the Burdettes, and it'd be good to get in on that. But Bette and I are still new here and I think we're sort of on probation. I hope to live here a long time--it's a great place to raise the kids, with all the fresh air and streams and hiking trails-- and I don't want to get on anybody's wrong side just yet. There's a lot of hard feeling in the Lake about further develop- ment."

"I'm surprised at you, Alex," Ray said. "I would have thought you'd realized by now that we'll always have that kind of feeling around here. It's a given, like the mountains themselves, or the air. Places like this seem to breed Neanderthals like Joe Burdette. We have to go around these obstacles. Daniel Boone did that, didn't he? He didn't have any tunneling equipment to get over the mountains. He found himself the Cumberland Gap and made it that way. That's what we got to do."

"I don't know...maybe if we talked with them –"

"Talk?" Ray laughed. "Try talking to an ostrich. You won't get anything out of those ignorant parasites but trouble. Look, this is my opinion: if we can get Sam Burdette out of the Mayor's office in 1976, things will change. I've been working on Jasmine, trying to convince her to run for the job. If I can bring that off, I guarantee you'll see a difference."

Alex studied Ray closely. He had baggy eyes, made bigger by the modish square-rims and perpetually wind-blown hair. The man was a frustrated tycoon and, though he was a fountain of ideas, Alex was leery of his business talents. The marginal success of Nicoll's Island didn't impress him all that much.

"It isn't really Sam I was thinking about."

"Ah, now I see." Ray got up and went over to the saloon doors, to pay his two teen-aged janitors for the day. He warned them to come to work on time tomorrow, then came back over and sat down in the chair, turning it around so that the backrest faced the table. "Someone has been feeding you a line about the Mountainmen Pursuit Club, haven't they?"

"The what?"

"You haven't heard of Joe Burdette's little hunting club?" Ray chuckled and ran a hand through his hair wearily. "Oh, it's quite a story. You'd love it; the kids do. It belongs on the Friday Night Thriller."

"What about it?"

''Well, it's become quite a legend around here now. I first got the story from Dick Mosley, by the way. I'll have to admit there are some bizarre aspects to it. And the deaths and disappearances are all real, you can't deny that. It has to do with what the townspeople call the 'Years of Blood,' back in the late 60s. That's when we had so many unusual murders—they were called murders but most of them were just stupid accidents that happened to careless people--and disappearances. Let's see if I can remember some--yeah, here's one. The Halloran camper. That would have been...oh, about summer, say mid-summer of 1969. In fact, not long before the Charles Manson thing out in California. It's the grisly coincidence that got people started, in my opinion."

''What happened? Is it a true story?"

"Oh, yes, it's true enough. The facts are kind of few and far between but here they are: it seems that sometime around the middle of July of that year, there was this great big camper, one of those Winnebagos, I believe. It was carrying a family called the Hallorans, on a trip through Scotland Lake, probably up to the National Park or Blowing Rock or someplace like that. Nobody knows for sure. Somehow, though, that great big camper got pushed or shoved, or blown right off U.S. 19, up there near Bears Knob where that steep ravine is. The whole thing went right over the edge--poor driving if you ask me-- down that deep gorge to the Bear River, maybe a five-hundred-foot drop. It was totally crushed, of course, and the nine people inside were killed. They had some pretty gruesome pictures in the paper I recall. Took the county a week to clean it all up."

Alex shivered. "That's horrible."

"A bad accident but that isn't the end of it. The county DA released a report, with pictures, that showed some odd puncture marks in the rear tires. Not bullet holes, but something sharp had hit them with a lot of force. The DA said a sudden blowout could have caused the driver to lose control of his vehicle around that sharp turn you take before you get to Wesser. He blamed it on rock fragments that had fallen onto the road."

"But you don't. I gather."

Ray shrugged. "It's a good enough explanation for me. But it wasn't long after that when the rumors started flying. This was one of the later incidents, you understand; some of them had occurred as early as 1966. I first heard about MPC from Mosley that summer, right after the accident. That was when he started believing it. Most of the rest of the town had fallen for that tripe years before."

"Why do so many people believe it when it's obvious you don't?"

Ray chewed on his fingernails before answering. "Beats the hell out of me. You know how superstitious mountain folk are--there's a bogeyman in every tree and an evil spirit in every creek and cave. The kind of mountain lore bullshit you see printed in pamphlets for Chimney Rock and Grandfather Mountain and some of the other attractions. They're all so hypocritical--whining and moaning about all the tourists and developers and yet thinking up and advertising the very stuff that'll attract tourists. They just don't want anybody to come in and show 'em how to market it properly. It's all one big clan up here anyway and they're the greediest, stubbornest, sons of bitches I've ever seen. All this 'Go away, outsiders' business is nothing but a smokescreen."

"What about Joe Burdette? He seems sincere enough."

"Yeah," said Ray. "He's probably the worst. Red Beavers once told me about Joe: he said Joe's like the bear with the biggest honey pot in the woods. He's got his paws into something mighty good but he can't enjoy it because if he does, all the others bears'll follow him right back to his treasure. And that's what I think of Joe." Ray eased out of his chair and stretched. "God, I hurt all over. Come on back to the kitchen and help me slop some chili on the dogs. We'll have us a good old greasy supper back there."

Alex waited until Ray had disappeared through the kitchen doors before getting up. An unwanted image surfaced in his mind, the hideous spectacle of a camper full of eager children, burning to death in a heap of twisted, flaming wreckage at the bottom of Bears Knob gorge. Why do I think about that? It's a ghastly thought. Not even fit for the Friday Night Thriller.

What was worse: he had no earthly idea how he would ever explain his hand to Bette.

Or to himself.

3.

Walt Ames slid out from under the Dodge station wagon that belonged to Cyrus Haley's wife and wiped a film of grease off his lips with his shirt tail. His watch told him it was getting on toward seven o'clock and he'd have to hurry if he planned on putting the car's differential box back together. He groaned and sat up, flexing his arms. They were cramped from working in close spaces all day but the thought of a steaming hot bath and a cold beer before dozing off in front of Charlie's Angels made the aching bearable. Another hour and he'd be gone.

It was when he rolled himself over to the shelf where Red Beavers kept his jars full of screws and washers that he noticed someone leaning on the back end of the car. He grinned and tossed an old rag at the stocky man.

"Didn't see you there, Joe? You trying to sneak up on a body, tonight?''

Joe filled out his white T-shirt pretty full but most of it was muscle that he kept firm by hours of hiking in his free time. He took off his gray bill cap and yanked out a loose thread. "Nope. Saw what time it was when I left the Pantry and thought you might like to go over to the Silver Dollar for some brew and some bitchin'."

Walt snickered and wiped his hands off on a torn-up pajama top he was using for a towel. ''You do a lot of that bitchin', don't you, Joe? I don't expect there's much more that you like better than bitchin'. Unless maybe it's screwin' and huntin'?" He chuckled and selected himself out the right size screw to finish the job. Then he lay back on the roller and slid under the car again. Joe came around to the side and squatted down next to him. He planted a painful kick with his boot, right on Walt's shin.

"I sure am a forbearing sort of chap for taking all the guff I do around here. You'd think a fellow'd have more respect for a friend than to tease him like that."

Walt's voice seeped out from under the transmission. "Oh, now, Joe, don't get started on that again. Ain't nobody around here gonna hold you up to ridicule. You just got a cat's nose for insults, that's all."

"Hell, I ought to. The way this town's treated my family since we came from Tennessee. You know that's what killed Pa--people riding him so. He worked himself right into the grave making up for the wrong my big brother Kenny done to that Ellen Gilmer, getting her knocked up like that. It was Pa's idea too: he wasn't gonna have people saying he wasn't a fair man. When he found out what Kenny did to Ellen and how Joe Gilmer would have an awful hard time of it come harvest, on account of his not having Ellen around to help out, he made us all work the Gilmer land on our spare time, to even things up. All that field work and extra hauling and chopping was what got him the fever and hardly anyone appreciated what he did. Even that asshole Joe Gilmer came late to the funeral." Almost caught me too, the scumhead. Joe played around with a socket wrench on the concrete with the toe of his boot. "Ain't nobody truly appreciated what kind of man Pa was. I can still see his face in my head, you know. And he ain't smiled once, in all those years since he died. It surely is sad that I can't get people to admit Pa was a finer man than ever was about this town. Especially since it was them that put him underground. I guess there'll be a reckoning someday, though." He kicked the socket wrench over to the corner. "Yes, sir. I kinda think there will be."

"What's that you mumbling about, Joe? I can't hear over all this noise."

Joe snorted and walked over to the Engine Analyzer Panel, with its instruments for timing and spark advance and battery charge. "Wasn't nothing, Walt." he said, a little louder. "The weather. The Arabs."

Walt slid back out again. "I got a better idea than going over to the Silver Dollar."

"What might that be?"

"You come over to my house. It's almost quitting time as it is. And Toni's over to the police station, helping Chief Mosley catch up on some paperwork--he got behind spending so much time with that Blanchard boy. She took Leslie with her, so the house's empty. I got me a real sweet engine in the garage, a 427 I pulled out of a smashed up 'Vette the other day. Needs some work but when she's done like I want to do her, she'll take you a lot of places in a hurry. What do you say?"

"I swear, on Pa's grave. Walt, you do have engine oil in your veins."

"Toni says I got a nice piston in bed, too." He laughed, wiggling his eyebrows. "Why don't you bring your crossbow over too and we'll do a little night hunting. For possum and such."

A big grin spread over Joe's face. "Now you're talking, son. What time you gonna be there?"

"Mmmm, come at eight-thirty. I'd like to clean this gunk off a bit before I tackle that engine."

"You got yourself a deal, mister." said Joe. "Need any booze?"

"I'm low. Bring a few carloads full."

They both laughed and Joe told him held be there at eight-thirty, "ready to kill."

"The booze or the possum."

"Both."

Joe Burdette left Walt to his work and got back into his pickup. Already, he was fidgeting, ready to go. Slinking through the woods at night was as fine a sport as a man could ask for.

4.

When she heard from Alex that he would be having supper with Ray Stocker, Bette didn't argue with her husband and didn't tell him what she really wanted to say: "I think you ought to go apologize to Suzie Costa." She was mad at him for not having the nerve to come home and she told herself when she hung up that he was just acting like a spoiled little boy, hoping the incident would go away and everything would be forgotten.

But sooner or later, husband-of-mine, we've got to have a little talk. He had become so petulant and grumpy lately, like Jimmy sometimes got when he couldn't do exactly as he pleased, that she had given more than a little thought to asking him to go back to the doctor. Not for anything major, she told herself. Just some little things. A short temper with the kids. An unnatural restlessness; where he had once loved books and read as many as three or four a week, now he didn't have the patience to sit down with the evening newspaper. Intermittently high fever and recklessness around the house. Just the other day, he had cut his arm badly on the can opener and had let it bleed for several minutes before Bette made him bandage it.

He had abnormal appetites as well, and not only in food. She found that change an enjoyable one; not since they had been married in 1968 had Alex been so voracious and satisfying in bed--she couldn't exhaust him now no matter how hard she tried. There seemed to be a well of strength and power inside of him that was bottomless and she knew they had made love in the weeks since Lucille's funeral more times than they usually made it in half a year. She couldn't quarrel with Alex about that, although she tried to convince herself, not very successfully, that she would prefer him the old way again.

But she was mad at him tonight and determined to express it even if he never came home. She wanted to teach him a lesson; maybe if she and the kids weren't there when he did come home, he would understand better than if they had a loud argument. Something was bothering him and making him miserable to live with. It was high time he admitted it and sought help before it got any worse. She didn't want Jimmy or Marcy coming down with anything just when the school year was at hand.

And she did want to apologize to Frank and Jeanne for what he had done to Suzie.

Bette rounded up her children and told them to put some shoes on. They were going to go visiting tonight.

"Oh, Mom," said Marcy, "do we have to? The Bionic Man is coming on and I want to see it."

"Yes, we have to." Bette said. "Come on, get a move on. One night without television won't hurt you a bit."

5.

Alex listened politely to Ray Stocker as he explained the details of his proposed development company. They were both stuffed--Alex had eaten four of the big foot-longs with everything--and working diligently on their third bottle of the Moselle that Ray kept around at the saloon for special occasions. He felt good and alive, despite the food and drink, and even noted a delicious tingling in his arms and legs, as if he were suddenly primed for some great exertion. Probably it was the wine--and the glass of beer he had had in between before Ray had remembered the third bottle--but when he noticed how his left arm twitched under the table, he wasn't so sure. It quivered as if stung by electricity and Alex prayed that the feeling in that mangled hand wouldn't come back all of a sudden.

It was going on nearly ten o'clock when Alex pushed himself away from the table and said. "Enough. If I eat any more, you'll need a steam shovel to take me home." He stood up, awkwardly with his left hand still crammed into his pocket, prompting concern from Ray and an offer to examine it, which Alex quickly turned down, saying it was already feeling much better. It was feeling something. he thought to himself.

"Think about it for a few days," Ray told him, as they sauntered out the door and across the now-deserted square. It was deeply shadowed except for bright cones of light from the overhead mercury lamps. "I'll probably be drawing up a prospectus with my attorneys in Asheville next week. Let me know then if you want to join up."

Ray piloted the small ferry back across the lake and docked them a little clumsily at the pier. There was a half-moon out, riding high on gauzy late-summer clouds. The breeze off the lake was brisk and refreshing and the cloying odor of pine and sweetgum sap drifted over the wooden pilings.

Alex said good-bye and got into his car. This was going to be tricky--he could see that already. Gingerly, he extracted his hand from his pocket. In the ashen light of the moon and the parking lot lamps, it was swollen and purplish, the fingers bent at different angles, with knobs of bone protruding from several. Even so, it looked a little better now. Maybe it was the light. He shuddered, grateful for the lack of pain. The best anesthesia for a sight like that was a long night of serious drinking. He started the car.

He soon realized that he had had far more booze than was safe. Manipulating the car with his right hand, he winced as the first throbs of a severe headache struck; he nearly ran into a lamppost as he tried to turn around.

Better take it easy, boy. This is no time to play Richard Petty.

He got the Nova straightened up and steered it toward the exit gate. He felt a little dizzy and didn't wait for the swing arm to raise completely before pulling out onto West Ramp Road. He clipped the wooden arm with his windshield but hardly slowed down, spinning slightly on some gravel in the street as he stepped on the accelerator.

Come on, now. Easy does it.

Inexplicably, he turned right out of the parking lot instead of left. He didn't want to go that way--it would take him back toward the lake and South Ramp Road. Yet he made the turn anyway and couldn't seem to will his right arm to obey. A cold knot of fear burrowed deeper into his stomach and he swayed behind the wheel with nausea.

No. I can't go through this again. Please leave me alone....

He tried to brake but his foot might as well have been lashed to the seat. Something, some will other than his own, was in control again and Alex was only a passenger in his own body. He thought of screaming but knew it was useless. The parking lot was already several hundred yards behind and the window was up. He would have bet a year's earnings at the store that his right hand was stuck to the steering wheel.

South Ramp Road had no streetlights since it seldom saw much traffic. It was a narrow, bumpy road that wound around the eastern shore of the lake for a few miles, then gradually twisted its way back to an intersection with West Ramp halfway to town. There were no houses to speak of, except for a few crumbling shacks set back in weed-choked fields, almost invisible from the road. Towering red oak and ash trees, draped with dense kudzu in menacing and bizarre shapes loomed over the asphalt, flickering the moonlight. The posted speed limit was forty-five miles an hour.

By the ghostly green dashboard light, Alex could see the car was already up to sixty. It was next to impossible to keep to the road at that speed with only one hand on the wheel. The car careened and swerved erratically from one lane to the other and back, skidding on dirt, and screeching around sharp unexpected turns.

The dizziness got worse and his vision began to blur. His muscles stiffened and Alex felt cold and lonely, lost in some terrible labyrinth, something angry and snorting stalking him at every turn.

"Leave me alone, goddamn you!"

He knew he had had far too much to drink--it was shock that was doing it. That had to be it--a delayed shock over what he had done to his hand. He hunched forward to try to get better leverage on his good hand, to try and rip it away from the wheel. But it was useless and he rocked back and forth in the seat furiously, frustrated and desperate.

He stared in horror at the dashboard: eighty miles an hour. The green light faltered, wavering, and growing dimmer. This is how I die—sloshed to my eardrums with booze and out of control on some Godforsaken road to nowhere. He wanted to fight on but he was flailing at nothing, shadow-boxing, spitting at his own reflection in the mirror. The dashboard wavered again and went dark--

\--and somewhere down that long steep chasm of black, he ran headfirst into a stone wall and turned with that speechless dry cotton feeling in his throat to confront the name less horror that had been stalking him--

They're coming, Esther, little Esther and I'm not through with you yet.

How pretty she was. She had a woman's face, a delectable little pout and eyes of wisdom far beyond her brief age. A thoroughly grand time we had, tossing and rolling like two dogs in the grass. I shall never forget the shy smile she put on for me in the failing radiance of that hot, fetid, candle lit shack by the creek. It was the only time she smiled for me, though I hold no grudge for that. When you've lived in trackless voids of Chaos for millennia, even the simplest pleasures are not to be ignored.

That's why I made her wear pins at the comers of her lovely full lips, though I know it must have been painful for her. I had no wish to hurt or destroy--that is wasteful, although the Earth is prodigal in her creation of living, material forms. No, much more would I rather feel and enjoy what has been for so long denied to all Antavatars: the sting and the ache and the pulse of life itself. I wanted that beautiful smile to persist, to endure even bodily destruction, for such a thing is possible, as any of us knows. What the humans think of as Death is not really that at all, but rather a maze of interlocking corridors, where a numbing cold wind blows, each part a portion of eternity and taken together, forming that peculiar species of existence to which we were condemned by divine trickery in the Beginning to suffer.

My hapless "wife" Nora had died a few days before, giving birth to a child which, although male as I desired and as I have become so accustomed to these past two centuries, was unfortunately stillborn. I was in a state of panic. Edward's body was deteriorating--I had used it fully in the sixty some odd years of my occupation--and I could feel the beat of life fading. It was time to move but I had no conduit, no receptacle for the sensation-drunk thing which I had become. I had to find a woman and mate to produce a child before Edward was extinguished entirely, otherwise my long string of fortune would be at an end.

So, you see, I had no choice but to take little Esther from that carriage I caused to wreck. It was either that or face the maze of Chaos again.

I exhausted Edward's body in this last sexual escapade. Esther fought me at first, clawing at my face with her nails and drawing more blood with each attack but I soon put a stop to that. I bound her tightly to the bedpost and ripped off her blouse and skirt. She had the smoothest, softest flesh of any child I have ever known and I paused for a moment, wishing to fix the impression of it in my mind before spoiling the body. I soon tore off my own garments and set to work.

She was strong, for a young human and there was difficulty in getting inside of her. She was unwilling to receive my affections in a sporting manner so I was compelled to knock her senseless with my fist and go about the task with no hope of the flattering murmurs and groans I had come to expect.

I did this perfunctorily, exerting myself to squeeze the very last drop from Edward's body. So intent was I on this activity and on the question of how I would raise the child and bring her to term with no provisions at hand nor any attainable in the near future, that I failed at first to notice the swish and tramping of unexpected visitors in the thick bush outside.

They're coming, Esther, little Esther, and I'm not through with you yet.

I had no time to react before the door to the shack was splintered open with a great crash and into the darkened room rushed a company of armed men. They stood mesmerized on the step, weapons cocked, regarding me with the kind of cruel but triumphant sneer I have often seen on the faces of hunters finally trapping their quarry. I made to pull out of Esther and stand to confront them but my intention was thwarted when the pursuer closest to me aimed his rifle and opened fire.

I knew at once that Edward's body would not survive the peppering and I severed my hold before I could be trapped in the quickly decaying flesh of this creature I had animated for the better part of a century. I was enraged that I should be interrupted at so crucial a moment, for I had greatly enjoyed the taste of the girl and meant to go on with it until I had explored the limits of the feeling--

\--and it was love They took from us next, laddie--

\--but I had to get out quick. I exited the body with a mindless fury and flew at the hunters until I had dismembered them completely. I am quite calm in recollecting this for I am certain that every last one of them fired his weapon wildly, blindly, at the dark, quivering shadow swooping at them from all sides until somewhere in that maelstrom of hands and legs and arms ripped out and heads wrenched off, somewhere in that whirlpool of anguish and distended eyes and broken spines and punctured lungs and shredded faces, they crumpled finally to the floor, stilled and oozing fluids in a deepening pool of black stain, until I quieted the hysterical shrieks of the child-slut Esther by entering her in my natural form, a piercing cold squall of wind hurtling down her love channel and erupting into the snugly warm confinement of her swollen womb, where I attached myself firmly to the wall and put down roots to grow.

Get away from me you sickening, slimy God-cursed monster.

\--and he understood quite clearly now that the car could no longer be controlled. He braced himself for the inevitable impact. It rounded the turn on the other side of the Pioneer River bridge, sliding sideways on two wheels.

The pale green luminescence of the dashboard flickered on and off a few times and Alex finally felt his right hand loosen its grip on the steering wheel. But it was too late and he closed his eyes, praying, as the car plowed into a rock and earth embankment at something over a hundred and ten miles an hour.

The impact vaulted him forward and he struck the rim of the wheel with his forehead, before blacking out.
Chapter 10

1.

Bette rang the doorbell again and just for good measure, rapped on the Costas' front door with the big brass knocker. She yanked on Jimmy's arm to make him leave his sister alone. "Stand up straight and behave," she hissed, wishing Jeanne or Frank would answer the door. She knocked again.

There was a commotion behind the door and she heard the sound of it being unlocked. Frank opened it and stood there behind the screen. a worried from on his face. "Oh, it's you, Bette. I thought—uh, come on in. Please." He held open the screen door. "I'm glad you're here."

Bette motioned her children in and followed them. Frank shut the door, after peering out into the darkened yard for a second. He forced a wan smile, swallowed hard and took Bette's hand, patting it. "Frank, what is it? What's happened?"

He ran his hands through his hair and shook his head. "Suzie's missing. We haven't seen her since several hours before supper."

"Oh, no."

Jeanne was sitting on the sofa by the bookshelves, smoking nervously, crossing and uncrossing her legs. Her hair was disheveled and her eyes were watery and red. When she saw Bette, she sprang up and ran into her arms. They hugged for a few minutes, while Frank paced the room.

"Oh, Bette, Bette, I'm so glad you came over. It's terrible--" she paused to rub a glistening film of wet from her eyes. "We've looked all over the neighborhood on foot, all the way down to Park, over to Ashwood, even around in Indian Bend..." She broke down into whimpering sobs, her shoulders shaking. "We can't find my little girl."

Bette held her tightly for awhile. Frank squeezed her shoulders sympathetically. "She said she was going to go play with Lorrie Palmer," Frank said.

Bette made Jimmy and Marcy sit down. "She played softball in the turnaround right after lunch. Alex and I were both there."

''Where did she go afterwards?"

Bette suddenly wished Alex were with her. "There was an accident. Alex was pitching in the game and one of his pitches hit Suzie on the side of the head. She wasn't hurt, thank God, but she ran off into the woods with Magoo." Bette let Jeanne go and she went over to the front windows, staring out into the night through the parted curtains. "I thought she was just taking a short cut. Didn't she come home?"

"No," Jeanne wailed. "My baby's out there, somewhere, probably hurt, maybe--"

"Now, Jeanne, Jeanne, don't think like that," said Frank. He came over to her and directed her back to the sofa, where she finally sat down with great reluctance. She lit another cigarette, oblivious to the one already burning in the ashtray. "She'll be all right. She's probably at some friend's house, perfectly safe."

"Which friend?" Jeanne asked, her voice cracking. "We've called everybody! Oh, God, Frank, I just know something terrible's happened. I know it has...."

"Did you call the police?" Bette asked.

Frank was about to reply when a loud rapping startled them. Someone was at the door.

"Suzie!" Jeanne raced for the door and yanked it open. In the dim light of the front porch, Bette saw it was Dick Mosley, his cap off and swatting at a persistent mosquito buzzing about his nose. "Oh, it's you, Chief..."

"Come on in, Dick," said Frank. "We've been expecting you."

"I had to break up a fight at the Early Bird," Mosley told them. "or I would have been here sooner." He turned down Frank's offer of coffee and instead took out a dog-eared old memo pad and pen. "You got a picture of the girl I can use?"

Frank took a small photo out of his wallet and gave it to him. "That's about a year old, Chief, but it's pretty close."

Mosley studied the picture. "Mm-hmm. I've seen her around town, up at the Orchard playground and a few other places."

"Can you find her?" asked Jeanne. "I'd just die if anything happened to my baby .... "

Bette went over to the sofa and sat down, with her arms around Jeanne's shoulders.

"Yes, ma'am. we'll find her. One way of the other. Tell me where you last saw her." Bette related the events of the afternoon and added. "I think she was a little scared after she was hit. I really came over to apologize for it."

"That's okay, Bette."

Mosley was scribbling in his pad. He looked fatigued, with several days' worth of beard darkening his normally dark complexion. He silently mouthed the words he was writing. "Can you give me any idea of where she liked to go hide, or play with friends? Any special, out-of-the-way place, secret hideaway, things like that?"

Frank was pouring himself a jigger of bourbon. He downed it all at once and offered some to Mosley, who shook his head.

"None that we know of. We've tried everywhere we can think of. All her normal friends haven't seen her for hours. We've called everyone we know. You haven't seen her, have you, Jimmy or Marcy?"

They both shook their head slowly, and Marcy added, "Sometimes, Marcy and me used to play house in the back of Miz May's flower place but we don't anymore."

"Why not?" asked Frank.

"'Cause one time she got stung by a yellow jacket and got scared to go back there anymore."

Mosley was writing it down. "It's worth a look..."

Jeanne was on the verge of hysteria. She shot up from the sofa at the sound of a car door slamming and ripped the drapes aside, peering out. "Damn," she muttered, wiping her eyes with her forearm. She let the curtains drop. "Damn," she said, a little louder. "I know something's happened to her." She couldn't stop her lips from trembling. "Ch-Chief, you'll find her, won't you? You won't let anything happen to my baby, will you, please?" She gripped him with both hands.

Frank coaxed her back to her seat. "Honey, why don't you take something? I've got some pills--"

"I don't want any damn pills!" she cried and jerked her arm free. All of a sudden, she reddened with embarrassment at her outburst and collapsed to her knees on the floor, crying. "God...let my b-baby be all right, please." Frank sat down on the rug with her, rocking her back and forth, until she fell at last into his arms and sniffled. Slowly, he got her up and led her back to the couch. He made her finish a half-drained glass of bourbon and water and looked up anxiously at Mosley.

"Chief, you've got to find her. You've just got to."

Mosley wet his lips. Sometimes, he wished he had never signed up for Military Police school to stay out of the infantry in Korea. "We'll find her, don't you worry none about that. I'm gonna organize a county-wide search right away and I'm sure she'll be found safe and sound. But I could use your help, Frank."

"You've got it."

Jeanne finally lost all control. "Oh, God, I know something bad's happened! I know it! Suzie's going to wind up just like Greta Blanchard!" She bent over on the sofa and cried into her hands.

"Honey--Bette--"

"You go on with Dick." Bette instructed. She was glad to be of use. "I'll look after her. Just find Suzie, okay?"

Jimmy and Marcy stared wide-eyed at them all.

"We'll bring her back, Jeanne." Frank lifted his wife's chin up with his fingers. Tears streamed down her cheeks. "Remember how it was when Daddy was on trial down in Miami? We gotta be strong, just like then. Now, you behave yourself and don't tell any dirty jokes while Bette's kids are here, okay?"

She forced a thin smile. "Okay," she said, thickly. She wiped the wet out of her eyes.

"That's better. You ready, Chief?"

"Let's get moving. It's not getting any lighter..."

The two of them hurried out the door to Mosley's cruiser and jumped in. The sound of tires screeching shattered the still night air.

2.

Dick Mosley rounded up a small brigade of men to search the town and its environs for Suzie Costa. He was on the phone for ten minutes, making one call after another, when they got back to the station. Toni Ames had left for the night, after buying a few Mars bars for Jack and scolding him for wearing nothing but his underwear in that cool, damp cell. "You'll catch your death of cold, child," she had warned him. Jack replied that if she'd hang around awhile longer, he'd show her how an Air Force jock caught a Saigon whore.

In half an hour, Mosley had assembled his search party. They gathered in the cramped front office of the station, lounging on desks, file cabinets and chairs, listening to the Chief 's instructions. Among them were Frank Costa, Red Beavers, Sandy Stearns and Louis Beems.

Mosley told them to divide the town up into four sections, centered on the town square. They were to look in every abandoned house they could think of, as well as checking neighbors and friends. Every open field had to be looked at, especially if it were overgrown with weeds or grass or bordered on woods. If that produced nothing, they would have to get some more men and dragnet the woods, starting at the Costas' house on Rutledge Street and spreading out from there.

And if that didn't work, Mosley shuddered at the next possibility. He didn't relish calling in divers from the State Police to drag the lake for a little girl's body.

"Let's get to it, men. It's almost 11:30 now. If you come across anything, anything at all, check in with Bette Perry at the Costa house. You've all got the number. There won't be anybody here at the station to answer the phone."

They left the station and got into the cars. Mosley asked Frank to accompany him. He wanted to go over to Crestline Drive at the east end of town and work back along Scotland Avenue toward the square, before branching off onto side streets and the vacant lots north and west of the old Sawyer mill works.

The clouds had thickened as the night wore on and the available moonlight was of little help. It was mild and still outside, with only the slightest breeze bearing faint scents of pine needles and leaking septic tanks. The insistent din of crickets hummed in the vines and bush and grass on the outskirts of town. Frank broke himself off a low-hanging branch and stripped it of leaves. He wanted something to poke into and prod the bush, without having to wade in on hands and knees and risk snake bite or worse.

The desperate search dragged on for several wearying hours. The men combed the gullies and gulches southwest of town, just on the other side of the Early Bird, where they were able to get some help from idle truckers in probing the dense tangled mats of kudzu and wiry brush, sometimes sliding down the dirt trenches washed away by heavy rains, sometimes slipping in soft mushy ground into weed and scum-covered cesspools at the bottom.

The high ground north of Scotland Avenue was equally fruitless. Red Beavers and Michael Merkle--the pimply seventeen year old he had let go a few days before--scrambled uphill after hill along the shallower flanks of Bears Knob and Eagle Point, scrounging through rocky grass fields, poking into rotting old barns blackened with age, tumbling down slippery, moss-covered granite balds and asking at every lighted house they came to, including the stately old home of Robert McNeese, where they got some Mercurochrome and Band-Aids for a bad cut on Michael's face.

It was hard, backbreaking work, made all the harder by the high clouds that obscured what little light there was. Scotland Lake was full of trails and cowpaths that had to be followed, sometimes into caves, sometimes into patches of brambles and pine stands so thick and riddled with gopher holes that cuts and slashes and gashes and twisted ankles plagued the men all night long.

Dick Mosley prayed to God that Suzie had not wandered off in the direction of Cathedral Caverns. There was no way she could get into the Caverns themselves--they were locked tight--but the ground along the north side of Wickham Road was underlain with scores of underground tunnels and caves, some of it treacherously unstable and liable to collapse with the slightest weight. Most of the worst areas had been fenced off long ago, but he knew it was just such forbidden areas that were likely to attract a small child.

Mosley and Costa worked their way back toward the square with no success and headed out along Duck Hollow Court in the vicinity of the high school and the ball fields. They asked questions at every house that was occupied and rummaged around in those that weren't. Mosley's police flashlight finally flickered down to a dim gray and died, its battery drained. They were able to borrow two more from the Kemmons and continue.

They trekked across some woods beyond Azalea Circle and forded a cold, unnamed creek full of hard round stones smoothed down by years of running water, before deciding to turn up Raven Creek Drive and explore the blackberry fields along that road. The underbrush was tough and clogged with thorny vines and warm, damp mounds of humus. Branches and tortured roots bulging up out of the dirt made footing difficult and they stopped for a brief rest beside a jagged tree stump crumbly with termite holes and dry rot.

Unknown to them, Sandy Stearns had circled back after following Branch Road as far south as Butler's Cliff and, several hundred yards behind the houses on Elder Lane had come across the old tool shed that Jimmy Perry thought was known only to him. He nudged open the door, already off its rusted hinges, and shone his flashlight onto the loose dirt of the floor. There he spied the strange collection of bones, arranged in concentric circles to form a sort of face, with a ragged grin where its mouth was supposed to be. He broke out in a cold sweat and stooped down to examine one of the bones.

It was plainly old--he could see that from the chalky white color and hairline fractures in the side. He saw that the marrow had been sucked out and decided it must be some animal's remains, maybe rearranged by one of the kids in the neighborhood. He chuckled at the fright it had given him; who wouldn't have gotten a chill at the sight of a Kilroy-type face made out of old bones, leering up at him in the dusty orange beam of his flashlight. He chuckled again, to prove he wasn't scared, and kicked some of the dirt over the face, so that it was partially obscured.

Bones in an old tool shed, my ass. He set the door upright and pulled it to, never seeing the tuft of black hair that lay halfway buried under a little mound behind the door. He decided to look around in the woods awhile longer, then and head back to the station. He was tired and getting hungry. Maybe something from the Dairy Queen....

By sometime after 2 A.M., the rest of the search parties had straggled back into town and trudged wearily over to the station. Mosley and Frank Costa were the last to arrive and were greeted by two steaming cups of coffee and a big box of creme-filled doughnuts. The men groaned and rubbed cuts and bruises and aching muscles, squinting in the bright light of the office. Sandy Stearns and Michael Merkle sat down on the floor, their backs propped up against the barred door that led back to the cells.

They had been at it for better than three hours, with no luck at all.

Mosley listened to their reports, sifting out whatever information he figured was useful. There was precious little and by 2:30, he had dismissed the men, thanking them one by one for helping out. He sent them all home for the night, promising to keep them up on how it was going. Red said he wouldn`t mind doing it again that afternoon, if it was necessary. Frank Costa was the last to leave. He didn't want to but Mosley convinced him that there was nothing more to do for now and he should go back and see to Jeanne. "I'm phoning in a report to the State Police right now anyway. We're all beat and need a few hours rest. Go on home and look after your wife. I'll give you a call when it gets light and we'll decide what to do then."

Frank didn't argue and said good night. He shut the door behind him carefully, leaving Mosley standing there, aching with fatigue. He stared at the door for a moment, then fixed himself another cup of coffee and sank into his chair. It had been a long day and he was frazzled to his wit's end.

There were so many places a small child could hide. He knew they hadn't covered nearly all of them. He sipped the lukewarm liquid, wondering. Had Suzie Costa just fallen asleep in some old dilapidated house? Had she just gotten lost in the woods, now wandering around helplessly, probably crying herself hoarse? Damn kids. He took another sip. How many times had he blistered Darlene's bottom for the very same thing? Every now and then, as he silently flipped through papers on his desk, a fragment of memory would intrude on his reasoning and scatter all traces of clear thought for a few seconds (the smallest Halloran child they had dug out of the charred and tangled metal of the camper, its tiny head cleanly severed just above the clavicle ty a jagged scrap of roof) oh no little brain of mine you're not going to do that to me now.

He shook himself out of the daze. Suzie was somewhere out there, safe and happy and probably sound asleep, sucking her thumb. It just couldn't be any other way.

He heard Jack Blanchard calling him from the back. Glad to be distracted from the track his thoughts were leading him down, he got up and unlocked the barred door. He went back to see what the boy wanted.

Jack was lying on his stomach on the bunk, the glossy center fold of a Playboy spread out before him. Sue must have brought it in for him.

"You find that Costa girl yet, Chief?"

Mosley leaned on the bars. He might as well get a good look while he was back there. "No. No luck yet. But we'll find her. It's just a matter of time...."

"What do you figure happened to her?"

Mosley shrugged. The girl in the center fold was black, all lathered up in glistening white foam with her dark thatch of pubic hair twisted into braids. "Don't know, Jack. Probably, she got lost in the woods. I just hope she found shelter somewhere."

"Wolves and bears, huh?"

"Mm-hmmm. And other things."

Jack yawned wide and stretched. The centerfold dropped to the floor, closing as it hit. Mosley decided he'd better confiscate it.

"You don't suppose that little girl is holed up in that old abandoned campground, do you, Chief?"

"Which campground is that?"

"Oh, you know. That place on the other side of the lake, the one that you have to get to by driving down the 'test track'."

"Off Pioneer Road?"

"That's it."

Mosley recalled that rutted old dirt road. Last time he had been by there, the kudzu had nearly covered up the entrance. Back in the 50s, it had been a kind of Lovers Lane and the kids still called it the "Test Track" because of the gullies and ruts and loose rock. Drive it at anything more than ten miles an hour and you could easily imagine yourself putting some experimental car through its paces; it was easier to ride that mean old horse Witchlady that Louis Beems had put to sleep last year. ''I doubt she's out there, Jack. That's three miles from where she was last seen, on the other side of town. Someone would have seen her. Besides, that place is plenty spooky enough to scare a child. Hell, it used to scare me, even in daylight."

"Well, maybe you're right. Chief. But maybe you're not. You remember when you caught me and Candy Sykes doing it out there, don't you? That was '63, I think. The only thing that scared me then was whether she was going to bite off my damn ear." He laughed and rolled over onto his back.

Mosley snorted. He certainly did remember. And yet, the boy had a point. The campgrounds were one place they hadn't looked. Nobody had thought of them. Maybe nobody wanted to.

"Jack, I think I'm gonna go have a look right now. I don't think she's there but I'll feel better if I go over and poke around some. Ten to one, she's already back home now and her folks are just too happy to give me a ring."

"Think you can handle being over there in the dark, all by yourself?"

Eat it, big boy. I was breaking up fights in Tokyo taverns when you were still sucking pablum. Still, it would be nice to have a little company. In case he dropped dead from exhaustion. He studied his prisoner for a minute. "Jack?"

Something in the tone of his voice made him sit right up.

"Yeah?"

"Come over here." He got up and came over to the bars. "I got one question for you."

"What's that?"

Mosley gave him a good stern look. "Did you kill your Mom?" He fixed his eyes on Jack's, watching every blink, every reflection off the pupils, until finally the boy doubled over laughing.

"Chief..." he spluttered. He sat down and giggled, then saw that Mosley was quite serious. With effort, he swallowed his laughter and tried to be grave. He couldn't stop the grin, though. "No, man. I did not. I absolutely did not kill my mother. Give me a Bible or a Readers Digest or something and I'll swear on it."

Mosley relaxed. He was already unlocking the cell. "You don't have to, son. I believe you." He pulled the door open. "Get yourself a jacket from the closet and put some new batteries in those flashlights on my desk. I'm gonna call Frank and tell him we're going over to the lake."

3.

There was a gentle mist rolling across the lake when Dick Mosley and Jack Blanchard pulled off the old Pioneer Road onto the 'test track" and bumped their way down toward the narrow peninsula where they recalled the campground to be. In the glare of the headlights, the mist reflected back crazy things, grotesque shapes that shifted and dissolved as soon as the front hood of the cruiser plowed into them. The tires jolted over tough, gnarled roots cracking up through the mud and every so often, a leafy branch would swat the windshield with a loud thump! before dragging along the side and passing behind. When Mosley let the car coast on the straighter, smoother stretches, which were rare, they could both hear the snapping of limbs under the wheels and the raucous screech of crickets.

It was a twisting road, that doubled back twice before finally breaking out into a small clearing. Ahead was a chain-link fence and gate, now rusted and trampled by too many teen- aged drivers who hadn't seen it in time as they dragged down the dirt trail. Some of the fence posts were badly dented and Mosley motioned for Jack to get out and tear away enough of the fence for them to get through. He did so, reluctantly. Somewhere off to their right, the gentle slurping of the lake waters lapping at the shore could be heard. Mosley eased through the gate, scraping his side on a ragged section of fence, and let the car coast to a stop in front of the office, a flat-roofed cinder block structure with boarded-up windows and scores of bullet holes in the walls.

Hunters getting too close to the lake, Mosley thought. The place looked like some peasant hovel caught in a cross fire.

They both got out.

Mosley grunted when he shined the flashlight down at the front wheels: he had come to a stop with the tires right on top of a black, maggot-ridden possum carcass. Hordes of flies buzzed angrily around the carrion.

It was a small campground, popular back in the Forties and Fifties, before the town developed the eastern shore of the lake and soon forgot about it altogether. Maybe twenty cabins in all, arranged in a sort of reverse S along the edge of the peninsula and the cove immediately north. Through the trees, they could see patches of mist drifting aimlessly over the water, and further on, a scattering of light that represented the general outlines of the town itself. Grass and weeds had grown back into the clearing in the years since the last paying customers had stayed here and each cabin was set so that it was nearly invisible to its neighbors.

They approached the office cautiously, as if half expecting some mad lunatic hunter to come barging out with his Winchester blazing. The door was locked but since it lay flat on the floor in the inch-thick dust inside, they had only to jimmy open the screen door to go in. The place reeked of animal dung and rotting flesh and Mosley nearly fell when a floorboard gave way under his feet. He grabbed hold of Jack's shoulder and together, they probed every room in the building. They found little but cobwebs and dusty broken-down furniture. The fine powder swirled lazily in the shaft of light.

Back outside, they walked along a well-worn footpath toward the first cabin, about fifty yards distant. The dirt was packed down hard and something scuttled out of their way into the bush just before Jack's flashlight got it. Hard, brittle eyes gleamed at them from a nearby thicket.

Neither spoke as they marched up a little rise and saw the dim shape of the cabin in the distance. A portion of its roof had caved in and the mass of branches in the gutter made Mosley think a storm had probably dropped a heavy limb on it. The fog was a little thicker here, as they were closer to the Lake. He could see where the terrain sloped down to the shore, hidden behind a thick clump of reeds. The water smelled rancid and oily.

All of a sudden, Jack shouted. He was ahead of Mosley and as the Chief moved his light over, he saw the boy battling some kind of circular thing, arms flailing wildly as he fought it off. Whatever it was, it bobbed crazily around his head, attacking in a curious way. Mosley ran up to help and then saw what Jack had been struggling with.

It was an inner tube, fixed to a rope, that someone had strung up to swing on between two sturdy oak trees. He shook his head and clapped Jack on the back.

"Looks like it got the best of you, son." He chuckled and helped him pull the tube over his head.

"Thanks," Jack wheezed. "Whew. I didn't know what that was." He punched the tire in frustration and it swung away into a pocket of black briars, snagging there.

"Come on," said Mosley, still chuckling. He knew his own heart was thudding and he didn't want to show it. "Let's get this cabin out of the way."

All of the cabins were essentially alike. Outside, they had steeply pitched roofs, with tiny clerestory windows giving a view onto the lake. Inside, there were massive cedar beams and a wrought iron spiral staircase leading up to a balcony-like second floor that ran along one wall. One big room with a fireplace of flagstone. One and a half baths. A kitchenette. Mosley found himself reciting it from memory and realized he had once read a promotional brochure about the campgrounds over at Cathedral, out there on the front desk with all the other literature. He snorted, wondering who in his right mind would direct anybody to this place. Ray Stocker, maybe?

They pushed open the door and stepped inside, carefully. Jack played his flashlight all around the walls, which were streaked with mildew and patches of mold. Some of the timbers around the doorway had been eaten away by termites and other cracks and crevices were visible as they scanned the room.

Mosley stooped down to get some light up into the fire place. He took a loose piece of railing board that had fallen down from the balcony and probed up into the loft. Something shrieked and fluttered and it startled him. He dropped the board and backpedaled in a hurry as sheets of dirt and soot came pouring down.

Jack shined his flashlight up to the second floor. Nothing, as far as he could see. There was a clump of rags by the top of the staircase. He decided to check it.

The steps were filmy with grease and slippery. He had climbed three of them when some sixth sense of foreboding made him shift his light a few inches over, onto the railing. He froze at what he found.

A mottled brown and white snake, several feet long, lay coiled about the railing, twined like a thick scaly rope. Its green eyes leered at him and its head bobbed as it tasted the air with its tongue. For a few seconds, Jack stood perfectly still, hypnotized by the swaying motion. He felt his grip on the flashlight weakening. The snake began slithering down the balustrade, its head erect and swinging as it came closer and closer. Jack willed his hand to move but it wouldn't obey and he stared in mute terror as the creature bared its fangs and hung poised to strike.

From somewhere a million miles away, he heard a thin voice saying. "Move away, Jack. Move away slowly. That's a copperhead you're looking at." He was grateful when hands grabbed him and pulled him away from the railing. He nearly stumbled backing down the stairs and only Mosley's support kept his rubbery legs from giving way when he had reached the floor.

"Let's get out of here," the Chief suggested. He helped Jack to the door and the sting of the mist on his cheeks soon brought him around.

The next cabin looked to be in much better shape. The original windows were intact, although caked with dust and mud, and the foundation stones appeared solid. Some of the external siding had been ripped off, exposing the framing timbers inside, but otherwise, the place seemed habitable, if you weren't picky about things like cockroach nests and putrid smells emanating from underneath the flooring.

They nudged the door open and went in cautiously, mindful of what might be lying in wait in the shadows.

A quick once-around with the flashlight convinced Jack that the first floor was free of snakes. The same could not be said of beetles and silverfish and other black scuttling beasts. The floor was alive with them, a moving mass of black, glistening and undulating in the glare of their flashlight beams. Jack's scalp prickled at the sight.

"You really want to go in there?" he asked Mosley.

The Chief chewed at his lips and nodded. "I'm afraid we have to, at least to look."

Jack didn't like the taste of what was rising in his throat. He swallowed it down. "You first."

Mosley teetered on his toes as he danced from one clear patch of floor to another across the room. Jack did the same, heading for the staircase again. He winced at the sickening crunch every step made and cursed under his breath when he almost slipped before he could grab the railing. Instinctively, he shone the light up the railing, and breathed a little easier. No slimy critters lurking on this one.

He watched for a moment, as Mosley bent over to direct some light behind the kitchenette counter. His expression changed from a distasteful frown to something short of an incipient vomit as he turned his head in disgust. He straightened up and tiptoed over to peer into the fireplace and the stairwell to the back door and patio.

Jack took a deep breath and started climbing up the stairs. He kept his light shifting back and forth from step to railing and back, determined not to be taken by surprise. Thank God, most of the filthy things were on the floor.

At the top, he saw at the shadowy limits of his beam, another pile of old rags, spilling out of a closet that was set back into the slanting bulk of the ceiling. For a brief second, he thought he saw a finger lying under one edge of the rags but that was stupid. A trick of light. Some dust, cloaking a fold in the material, that's all.

He stepped carefully across the floor, waving his light back and forth.

The distance from the top of the stairs to the closet door was no more than thirty feet. By the time he had covered half that, he knew what he had seen was more than just a finger. Its general shape had gradually become evident as he approached--the way the cloth lay, the bulges and creases, in the right places, the way it was stretched and draped over the--

"Chief." His voice was hoarse and he had to wet his lips to get the words out. "Chief, get up here. Quick."

From somewhere behind the staircase. "What is it? Another inner tube?"

"Chief, I think you better take a look at this..."

He heard some crunching followed by cursing. "Goddamn bugs--I'm coming, just hold your horses." He heard the hollow plink of Mosley's shoes on the steps. A few seconds later, he was standing next to Jack, shining his own beam onto the pile of rags. The outline formed by whatever was beneath them was vaguely distinct. Mosley felt the blood drain from his face when he took another step and saw the rest of the hand. "Shit." He crouched down, nose wrinkling at the putrid smell and gingerly, with his fingers, drew back the topmost of the rags.

Jack choked at the sight.

It was a body, a human body, although that was a mere anatomical distinction. Mosley pulled a little harder at the edge of the cloth and all of a sudden, the parts of the body were no longer a whole. Its head toppled off the shoulders and thunked down onto the wooden floor, rolling over several times and almost dropping over the side down to the first floor. A stream of black vermin poured out of its eyes and mouth, like string unraveling. Startled, Mosley dropped the sack and the rest of the body fell apart.

The hands had been severed from their wrists, the arms from their sockets. The feet lay up under the legs, also unattached, their toes curled in a rigid vise of death. The torso was naked, what was left of it after several days of putrefaction and its remaining skin, now dull and greasy black from the work of the bugs, clung to badly misshapen rib bones inside.

"Chief, I'm gonna be sick." Jack turned and ran back to the stairs, drooling and retching at every step. He grabbed the railing and just caught himself from falling into that moving bog of filth below. He spewed out his guts for a few minutes and grimaced at the squeal of the beetles battling each other for it. Finally, he was emptied and he straightened up, his throat and stomach searing hot. He went back over to stand by Mosley.

The Chief was carefully nudging the head and one of the hands back into the sack.

"Who is it?''

Mosley reached down and removed a slender metal bracelet that was dragging under the hand. He extracted it gently and held it up to his flashlight. Two letters stood out clearly in the beam: SC.

''Does that answer your question?"

Jack gulped. "Suzie Costa? But who--why--"

"God, I am going to need a permanent vacation if this sort of thing keeps up. First Greta, now...her. They'll have to give me a rubber police car." His eye caught something and he crouched down to get a better look. With his pen knife, he scraped a faintly green residue from underneath the fingernails of the dismembered hand. Jack's stomach flipped. Mosley stood up. "What do you make of that?"

Jack let a long sigh out. "Nothing, I hope. Lint, maybe. Looks like she was wearing some kind of green trim on her panties there."

"Maybe.'' Mosley took out his handkerchief and wrapped the green matter in it, stuffing it in his back pocket. "Help me get it all back into the sack."

"You've got to be kidding." But Jack did help a little, with the toe of his shoe, in getting the head and other limbs back together. With the remains in such an advanced state of decay, it was hard to tell but there seemed to be very few marks on the body. Some blood stains were apparent but no gaping wounds or knife or hatchet slashes. From all appearances, the girl had simply been pulled apart, dismembered limb by limb, and all the parts had then been carefully arranged so as to give a distant observer the impression of completeness. "What are we going to do now?"

"We'll have to take her back to the station until I can get a hold of Ed Beeson. Then maybe we can store the remains in his morgue. We got a ton of questions to be asked. Here, take this--"

"Shhh!" Jack held up his hand. "Listen!" he hissed.

Mosley froze, with one end of the sack still in his hands and the other end on the floor, the head rolled out again. It skittered over to the wall and stopped, eyeless sockets gaping up at them. "I don't hear nothing—"

"Shhh! Over here, by the window...."

For a few seconds, the only sound he could make out was the incessant din of crickets and the slap of the lake waters against the shore. Then--something. A rustling in the bush. He crouched down to the window sill and settled his chin onto the wood, peeping out over the ledge.

He heard more branches snapping. Silhouetted in the spectral mist was a dark, upright figure, two-legged, two-armed, scurrying clumsily through the woods. The clear sounds of agitated growling and slobbering were audible, mixed in with grunts and angry snorts. Jack peered around the edge of the window molding, eyes wide. The figure soon disappeared from view, but its animal snarling hung in the air for some minutes after the thing had vanished in the fog.

Jack shivered and looked down to Mosley. The Chief was still squinting, wondering. "Some bear, you think?"

Mosley shook his head thoughtfully. "I couldn't see well enough, damn it. Probably." He groaned as he stood up and swayed, the fatigue washing over him. "Who else would do this to a little girl?"

The moment he said that, his own mind supplied an answer. But Mosley chose not think it and after a few seconds, the thought vanished as surely as whatever had just slinked off into the night. He wondered if Jack could read his face.

"Come on," said Jack. "Let's get out of here. If we stay any longer, we may run into the Creature from the Black Lagoon."

He chuckled gamely at his little joke. But Mosley didn't find it funny at all.

Chapter 11

1.

The portable clock-radio said 5:23 in the morning when Bette saw the door to their bedroom slide open and a dark, shivering figure slip in. It padded stealthily over to the closet, where it removed its shirt. Without opening up the slatted door, it flipped on the closet light and finished undressing by the yellow light inside. It was tired and bruised and each movement elicited a little moan of pain. Bette waited until the figure was completely naked and heading for the bathroom before switching on the lamp by her bed.

It startled Alex and he winced in the bright light, shielding his eyes for a second. Bette was shocked by his appearance.

"Alex! What happened to you? What's wrong with your hand?" She started to throw back the covers and get out of bed but her husband waved her back and came over himself. Sitting down on the side. "Where have you been all this time, anyway?"

Alex rubbed his neck wearily, then realized the bandage on his left hand was starting to unravel. Swiftly, he re-wound it and tucked his hand under his left leg. "I would have called. I should have---"

"Did you hurt your hand? Here, let me see it."

"No." He grabbed her wrist before she could reach his damaged hand. As an afterthought, he kissed her on the knuckles. "It's not bad. Really, I'll be okay."

Bette retracted her hand thoughtfully. The sheet had slipped down and she clutched it over her breasts, more to give her hand something to do than anything else. "What became of you? You and Ray must have had a hell of a talk."

Alex smiled meekly. "We did, I guess. But that's not why I'm all beat up like this."

"Why are you all beat up like this?"

"l had a little accident in the car. Not serious--I was pretty lucky." Think fast, think fast. Why couldn't he remember? "It was a flat tire, actually. Over by the old Blanchard farm--you know. Where that turn is and the rut along the shoulder? I was going a little too fast--we had three bottles of wine and a few beers--and I hit it." He shrugged. "It wasn't easy changing tires in the dark.''

"But, honey, your hand--"

"It's okay. I cut it on the side of the jack. It wasn't deep. I got it bandaged up at the Mooney place--they were real nice about it." He hoped she believed all that and patted her affectionately on the cheek to add some emphasis. "It won't even need stitches.''

Bette was furious at him and firmly removed his hand from her face. "You should have called. I've been worried to death about you. I was going to call Chief Mosley at sun-up."

"I know. I've been a bad boy. But I was tired and wanted to get home. I didn't think about using the Mooneys' phone.'' He leaned over. "A little kiss, maybe?" He squeezed her chin and kissed her but she didn't respond and he drew back. ''What's wrong now? You don't exactly look like Miss America yourself, you know."

She turned over on her side and propped herself up with an elbow. "Thanks a lot." She studied her husband for a few moments: his face, his narrow shoulders and the scar where he had been wounded that hot July night in the alley behind the Bookhaus in Decatur--it was a little white line just under the collarbone, his narrow waist, the folds of approaching middle-age now apparent where once he'd been as slim as a teen-ager. They had been married seven years ago, come next month, and she loved him as madly in 1975 as when he lay helpless in the hospital bed after the shooting, trying like the devil to impress his new therapist with dirty jokes. She'd laughed at him, back then, thinking like they taught her in nursing school that it was important to have a good rapport with the patient. She had a good rapport all right. She had nursed him right out of the bed and into the wedding chapel--it took about a year but she managed to collar him. Maybe she was just transferring sympathy; her old childhood friend Randi Allison saw it that way. She had, after all, nursed her own brother Kent ever since she could remember; he'd swerved his bike into the path of an ice cream truck one summer morning and had come out of it paralyzed from the waist down. She had wondered about it a lot when she first met Alex. He was charming, in his way, although awkward in social matters. Uncomfortable around women, although she knew why that was. His entire childhood had been dominated by one strong-willed woman after another, often several, fighting, feuding, sniping twenty-four hours a day. Grace was like that and it wasn't hard for a woman to see it. He let himself be dominated--it was the only defense he had back then. In that kind of environment, speaking up was suicide, so he'd withdrawn and become an appendage to the family. Some people thought it was modesty, but she knew better than that. He'd become a master at submerging his own personality in someone else's. When they had first met, in the Physical Therapy room at the hospital, she had sensed a deep and abiding mystery inside of him, something that perhaps he himself was not aware of. It was curiosity at first. Maybe a little sympathy. She'd learned about men from Kent, what they needed, what they wanted. It was old hat by then. She was used to it. Mothering, commanding, giving orders, she was good at it and liked it, even though she named it nursing. She'd sensed early on that Alex liked to be dominated and her own vigorous personality had flowed naturally into the vacuum. But she couldn't help wondering: is this all there is? Her mother had once told her, not long after her own divorce, that marriage was like good topsoil. "It's fertile enough when watered," she always said, "but after the harvest, you have to plow it under and start new every year." Maybe so, maybe she was right. But Bette worried about him still, and worried about her worrying. She'd seen Kent waste away practically to nothing and it had been almost unbearable in high school, when the other boys were growing into fine young men and her own brother seemed arrested at the permanent age of nine. She didn't want that to happen to Alex--she wouldn't let it. The thing inside of him, whatever it was, had to be vanquished. It had to be beaten back, or forced out, or extinguished before its strong gravity pulled Alex in completely. Somehow, some way, she had to flush the debris of the past away and free him from the lingering death-grip of people like Grace and his mother Emily and his grandmother Lucille. Even that housekeeper Rita Donze. She wasn't about to let them breed their stupid schemes and plots in Alex. Not by a long shot.

"Honey, I do worry about you these days.'' She squeezed his hand. "You haven't looked like you felt too well lately. Won't you please tell me what's wrong, like you used to when I was your nurse?''

Alex let his shoulders slump with a big sigh. "It's hard to explain. It's a general feeling--I don't know, some kind of big blah. Malaise is what your doctor friends would probably call it. I know I have a fever every now and then. And this crazy kind of double vision, where I see things and think things, that...just can't be."

"What kind of things?"

"Well, it's sort of like an extra set of memories. Like there's someone's home movie running through my mind. Things I know I couldn't have done. Yet I remember them."

"You've been working too hard. Overwork and imagination, that's all it is. You spend too much time in that store, with all those books and things, it's no wonder you can't think straight. You need to get out more, be with people."

Alex lay back on the bed, right over her legs, He rubbed his eyes and yawned. "You're probably right. It's a cold coming on."

"Just what kind of things do you see, anyway?"

He laughed. "Oh, the creepiest things you could think of, Bette Lou. Monsters, scaly beasts ravaging helpless women, torture and kinky sex. Just like one of those potboilers you're always reading."

She grimaced. "Sounds awful. You ought to write a book and call it 'Love's Flaming Fever' or something." She twined the hair on his chest around her fingers. "Anything else?"

`'You want the truth?"

"Naturally."

He thought about the incident at the carrousel. "Sometimes—how do you put this? Sometimes, like I'm not in control. I know that sounds crazy, but...I can't help it. You know how you feel when you've just woken up from a bad dream, that feeling of floating in the middle of nowhere, all alone and helpless? That's how it is for me. At moments like that, I don't know who or where I am and I swear, to God, Bette, I'm sure there's someone else up here with me, teasing me, laughing at me, running my body like it was a machine or something. I can't make my arms and hands do what I want them to, sometimes, they don't even feel like my arms and hands. I feel my skin being cut or burned and chewed on and I look down and there's nothing. The nerves are sending false signals, things that aren't happening. Maybe it's some kind of psychosis or compulsion. I don't know.'' He shook his head. ''Shit. I've probably said too much."

Bette leaned over and cupped her hands under his chin. "I want you to go back to the doctor. Now, don't argue with me. Alex. Please. You know I'm right."

"Bette, please .... I'm not a basket case."

''Listen to me, husband. You go see Frank Costa tomorrow. Or if not Frank, then go down to Atlanta. My old family doctor, Dr. Beecher, can help you. He's a wonderful man. But do it, Alex. Do it before whatever this is gets any worse.''

"I don't really think--"

"Don't argue with me. Now, Dr. Matrangos in Savannah said you'd have to take it easy for awhile and you haven't. I can't afford another hospital stay like that. So you get your tail to the doctor's tomorrow and find out what's wrong." She saw he was drifting toward sleep.

"Do I have to?" he mumbled.

"Yes, you have too" His lips had parted and his breathing was slowing down. Poor thing's exhausted. "You going to sleep now?"

"Mmmm...."

She pulled her feet out from under his back. "Well, before you do, you ought to know something's happened to Suzie Costa." A gentle snoring. "Alex? Did you hear what I said? Suzie Costa's missing and they haven't been able to--" She stopped, seeing it was useless. He was half off the bed and sound asleep.

She lay back on her pillow and thought for awhile.

2.

Greta Blanchard's funeral was over by 1 P.M. the following afternoon. It was a small simple service in the chapel of High Haven Baptist Church, with only Jack and Sue Kemmons and a scattering of others in attendance. The Reverend Leo Stearns was there, a wiry, gaunt, marble-eyed man with a clipped, hammering cadence, so much like his son Sandy that Louis Beems' portly wife Charlotte was moved to comment how sad it was to see the boy pumping gas at the Top Flite when he could have entered the ministry and done God's work. Hearing that, her husband remarked, "The Lord's got enough moochers as it is.''

They buried her in the hillside cemetery behind the church parking lot. Jack stood by the grave for awhile, accepting condolences from the townspeople who came by. Toni Ames brought a carrot cake to cheer him up. Sarah Haley provided a plump Virginia ham. By the time he had shaken the last hand, and received the last sorrowful kiss, he had acquired several weeks' worth of groceries. Many of the faces he embraced were still in shock over the manner of Greta's death. Their voices were low, whispers really, strained further by the terrible news about the Costa child. "Isn't it awful?" muttered Charlotte Beems, dabbing at her eyes with a napkin. "A young family like that. What will they think of our town?" She stooped to place a bouquet of roses at the foot of the freshly turned earth.

Sue Kemmons had known Jack for little more than a year but she knew there was no way she was going to leave him alone in that big house tonight. She invited herself over to cook dinner for him at seven, and when she arrived and found him lying in bed, the lights off and a nearly drained bottle of vodka nearby, she put down the potatoes and head of lettuce she had picked up that afternoon and turned on the radio to an FM Asheville station she had always liked.

With the drapes on the side window slightly parted, they lay in bed together watching the last pink remnants of the day settle behind the trees.

Elton John was on the radio, belting out "Philadelphia Freedom." It was Jack`s first time in bed with Sue since they had broken up in March. They tried making love but it didn't work out and they soon gave up. Sue lay behind Jack, curled up in the hook of his legs, her own thighs just brushing his butt. She ran her finger lightly down the hairs on his arm and they said nothing for many minutes, while the news came on the air and droned on about demonstrations in Portugal, coups in Peru and Cuban advisors in Angola.

"You're cold, tonight, Jack. Is it the funeral or what?" She nestled up closer and tucked her chin on top of his shoulder blade.

A mumble. "I haven't had enough vodka."

"That won't help it. Why don't you talk? The VA doctor says that always helps."

"They don't know a pie crumb about anything."

"You know you got every right to be bitter, Jack. I wouldn't ever say you don't have that right, what you been through. But it's not good for you. I know you sometimes eat yourself inside out with hatred. And it's gonna put you in that earth with your Momma just as sure as that sun's going down. Tell me what's going on in that head: is it the war?"

"No."

"What then? Your job?"

"Job?" Jack snorted and reached over to finish off the vodka. "What job? That peabrain Raymond C. Stocker's worse than a fucking DI at boot camp. At the camp at Ninh Binh, we had this gook commander--his name was Tranh or something but the guys called him Tramp--and I will tell you one thing, Sue-child, he must have learned his Cruelty 101 real good from my boss 'cause he didn't have nothing on old Raymond C. You can't know what I'd give to box that old fat fart around good one day. He makes my skin shrivel."

She rubbed his neck to make those tight muscles loosen up. She knew he often got bad cricks from getting so mad.

"You know thinking like that won't do you any good. Jack. I mean, I understand it. A man's got a perfect right to have a temper and get mad and there's some things that're worth getting mad over but--"

"I know what you're going to say. You think I'm not but half a man. Or a quarter man. Maybe an eighth, 'cause the VA says I'm a borderline acorn, right?".

"I wasn't going to say that at all. If you'll let me finish, what I was going to say is that you're in a difficult time now, and there's no reason to be ashamed about that since you're not to be blamed for it, but anyway you've got to be careful with yourself until you are fully back in place. You can't keep stepping on a bedspring and expect it to lie still when you step off, you know what I mean? People understand that, Jack, if you'll let them. You're not in that camp any-more and nobody's trying to hurt you. You've got to stop hiding behind that screen. You don't fool me one bit with that 'Ray Stocker is my camp commander' business. You're home now and responsible for what you do. You can't excuse it with that 'I was a POW' look. You always been one to rebel and sooner or later, all the pity's going to dry up and blow away and then where will you be? Hmmm?"

"You been talking to Sandy again, I can tell. All that jive about me and the law when I was little. That time my Momma hired me to work with that crew fixing up the Caverns--he tell you about that too? I got into a fight with a carpenter guy named Lane and I pushed him over the edge of Pinnacle Falls. Broke his neck. Momma let on like it was an accident. But it wasn't. I did it deliberately...

"And you're proud of that? You're proud of being mean?"

He nodded and turned over on his back. "Yeah, I am. I was then. It made me feel good when all those workmen stared at me like that. I was big."

"You're going to get so big one day, you'll explode."

"Probably. I need to fight, Sue. I got to. Even Chief Mosley knows that." He chewed over a thought. "You know, he's not so bad for a cop. I misjudged him. I was thinking before you came over here that I surely would have made a fine bloodhound if I'd been born a dog. We were over at that old abandoned campground last night, hunting through the cabins for that girl, and I really felt at home. Mosley was scared stiff but I wasn't. I could really see myself like that: stalking a prey, running him down, going for his throat and tearing it to shreds. And I wouldn't have to worry about whether it was right or not either. They'd just turn me loose and say, 'Sick 'em! I could do that for a long time and be real happy."

"I think you been spending too much time at Smitty's Perch. You're beginning to sound like Joe Burdette."

Jack laughed. "You know I do, don't I? God help me if I wind up like that cornhead."

Sue could feel his body giving in, relaxing. "You will, if you don't let me love you properly."

He craned his head around and grinned at her. "You're something, you know that, Sue-child."

"I try to be." They nuzzled noses for a second and she whispered. "Let's see if you remember anything I taught you."

"Taught me?" He smacked her behind good. "Come here, woman. I think it's about time we got straight who's doing the teaching."
Chapter 12

1.

Raymond Stocker had prepared for this night for a week and a half and he had wanted everything to be just right. Jasmine was coming home from Appalachian General, some thick bandages still on her neck and shoulders, but otherwise whole and alive and jabbering like a speeded-up tape player. He was awfully glad to see her like that--you'd have thought she'd been gagged the whole time and had to spill out every thought she'd had at once--and planned on celebrating with one of Manny Soperton's best steaks and a little grape juice called Chablis he'd picked up at the Skyline Bottle Shop.

But the weather is a fickle thing in Scotland Lake in late summer and a cool miserable drizzle set in right after they had pulled out of the hospital parking lot. It broke down every last bit of the atmosphere he had so carefully nurtured for this night and the thing that had set it off was the same thorn that had bedeviled them for the past eleven years. When he pulled their Lincoln into the garage and pressed the button to make the door roll down, he knew the evening was hot and he swore to himself that he'd torch that stupid amusement park if it were the last mortal act he performed.

"I don't know why I feel this way," she was saying, as she held open the door for her husband. Ray struggled with her suitcases, trying to get them into the kitchen. "But I do. I just want to get away from this town for awhile. Sell the park and use the money for travel. We haven't been anywhere in years and with what's going on around here lately, I think it'd be a good idea to leave, at least until things quiet down."

Ray hustled the suitcases upstairs and into their bedroom. "I know how you feel about the park but Jasmine, if we pull out now, we won't be able to meet our payments on Mountcalm. Or this house. Or that new credenza you bought last spring."

She went over to her vanity and frowned at herself in the mirror. The gauze was so thick under her blouse that it made her look like a hunchback. And those bandages definitely did not do anything for her figure. "I don't care. I'm sick of the tourist business. I'm sick of this recession. And the gas crisis. Look at this town, Ray. It's full of loonies. First, Greta Blanchard, the poor woman. Now Jeanne's little girl. I'm telling you I've had enough of it."

"Now, honey," he came over to the vanity and hugged her around the waist, carefully. "You're just nervous. All that medicine and salt solution has got you upset. I've got some wine downstairs. Why don't you have a glass? You'll feel better."

"Ray, what would I do if something happened to you? Where would I go? How would I live?"

"The radio always needs people who can talk."

She elbowed him in the rib and pulled out of his grasp. "You know what I mean. Have you seen Frank and Jeanne lately?"

"Not since I heard."

"Ray, she's hysterical. Frank had to give her a strong sedative this morning. She's been practically unconscious all day. Can't you think about anything but money?"

"Of course I can. What do you want me to say? It's terrible what's been happening. I don't like it any more than you do. But they're accidents."

''They're murders."

"All right, murders. It happens everywhere. Why should the Lake be any different? We've had them before."

She whirled around and said, "That's exactly my point. What happened in the late 60s is happening all over again and I, for one, do not want to go through it again. I don't like not being able to go out visiting at night without jumping ten feet every time a leaf falls. I don't like the way neighbors look at you from behind their grocery sacks, wondering if you've got a butcher knife in your purse. It's no way to live. Ray. You know what I heard? Martha Ridley told me this when she came up Monday evening. She said Eliza Bell's already taken to ordering up brand new locks for her house. She's preparing for the worst. And you know what'll happen if that gets around town. People remember what she went through.''

Ray sat down on the bed and started untying his shoes. "Eliza Bell is a neurotic hermit. Don't you think you're taking this a little too far?"

"No, I certainly do not and I would have thought you'd have a little more consideration for your wife. Don't my feelings count or are you too far gone for that?"

"Jasmine, why don't you let me get you that wine. Take a nice hot bath. You're--"

"I'm fine, Raymond Stocker! I'm just great. Can't you tell? I haven't felt so good since my miscarriage. I swear if you make me feel any better, I'm liable to float away like a snowflake."

Ray flung his shoes across the room, missing his closet. "Well, I hope you're not going to blame your miscarriage on me. You're the one who wanted a child so bad.''

"I'm glad you mentioned that, now that the subject's been brought up." She started to wriggle out of her blouse, grimacing as she slipped it over her shoulders. "Just where were you, my loving husband, those months after the baby died? A real man would have been at his wife's side, helping her get over the loss. You were out at the Island, working on that stupid roller coaster. I had to recover on my own, thank you."

"At least, we turned a profit that year."

"What's more important: me or that goddamned amusement park?"

"Jasmine, don't ask me that? We've got to make a living."

"While people are being murdered right under our noses--"

"Jasmine, your voice is squeaking. Will you please listen to--"

She didn't stay to hear the rest of it. Instead, she grabbed up her blouse and slippers and stormed into the bathroom. The door slammed shut behind her.

Ray ripped off his tie and hurled it against the closet door. He decided it was time he went downstairs and had some of that wine.

2.

On the drive up U.S.19 to Sam Burdette's place, Dick Mosley reflected that it was not the kind of dilemma Starsky and Hutch would have found themselves in. He braked going around the sharp switchback turn on the other side of the Sawyer millworks and forced a rueful smile that didn't last very long. Nor would a certain gangling MP from Louisville, Kentucky have lost much sleep over it.

Lord, those days seemed like something out of a World War II magazine now, sepia-toned and dog-eared, with just the right mix of artless foolishness. How the hell had he ever gotten into this business?

That was easy enough to answer. He'd been out with his Daddy (the incomparable Finch Mosley: "salesman, friend and confidante") on the run down from Richmond, Kentucky to Knoxville, selling clothes, food, Bibles, and anything else they could hawk, cruising right along in that magnificent old gray Buick convertible (he'd twiddled the radio knobs for hours until they had grown tired of being saved by one orotund minister after another and wasn't Reverend Jack just the funniest man you ever heard?) when somewhere inside of the Tennessee state line, way up there in the clouds where you could look for miles and miles in every direction, they had been robbed. What was the name of that little metropolis--Jellico or something or other. Robbed just as pretty as you please, right there in the middle of August of 1938, coming out of Pope's Diner on the side of U.S. 25.

It was something Dick would remember for the rest of his life.

His Daddy had lost over a thousand dollars in that hold-up. He'd even been brained on the skull with the butt end of a shotgun but it wasn't too bad. It was just about the most exciting thing that could happen to a seven-year old and thank goodness no one was badly hurt.

He remembered those robbers real well--there were three of them, all wearing farmer's coveralls and one with a big straw hat. With them whooping and hollering and scampering off through the corn fields, trailing money like it was sand, Dick was as close as he was ever going to get to those Wild West stagecoach ambushes he liked to read about. He was so proud of his experience that he saved a scrap of Mr. Pope's washrag that Daddy used to stop the bleeding behind his ear. He bragged about that day for years afterward.

Finch and Annamae Mosley often thought of Dick as the lazy, good-for-nothing dreamer of their two sons. He didn't like it when they called him that but he'd learned well enough on those long two and three-week sales trips when his Daddy kicked him in the pants as they were walking up to a house to make their pitch and told him to look smart and speak when spoken to, that you usually wound up being what you were expected to be. He was quiet and a lot of grown-ups thought he was ill but that was okay. Just so long as they didn't bother him in his "thinking time."

He had a favorite spot in the woods back of their house in Richmond, where he had fixed up an old inner tube as a swing. His brother Melvin and the neighborhood kids kidded him about it mercilessly, but he could easily spend an entire day on that swing, just imagining things, and snoozing when he got tired. Mel liked to call him Birdman because he pumped the swing until it got to soaring way up into the branches of that old hickory tree. And, ever since, that nickname (and others even worse-- like Birdy) stuck, maybe because of his big eyes and angular features, maybe because Mel just liked to aggravate him. In any case, Dick Mosley wasn't too sorry that that awful moniker had lost its way somewhere on the long road to Scotland Lake.

He bounced his police cruiser over a dip at the bottom of a steep decline and put the car into low for the long climb up the other side. A big eighteen-wheeler ground through its gears on the downslope coming the other way and braked hard when the driver saw in the glare of his headlamps the POLICE lettering on the side of Mosley's car. The Chief smiled at that bit of acting; he knew well enough that the driver would probably stand on the gas once he got to the top of the hill and out of sight.

Thinking of that inner tube he loved to swing on reminded him of Jack Blanchard's encounter with the old tire at the campground last night. He chewed on his lip, wishing he could be anywhere but here, doing anything but this. He had dreaded the trip for a whole day; in the end, he'd succumbed to Sam's suggestion (a little easily, he imagined) to come up to his place at Bears Knob and talk over what he'd found when he and Jack had discovered Suzie Costa, or what was left of her.

Yes, sir, you usually wound up being exactly what people expected you to be. He ground his teeth and turned off onto the twisting dirt road that wrapped around the base of Bears Knob and lurched along for a few minutes until through the trees, he could see the outside floodlights of Sam's Tudor-style mansion.

He pulled up behind Joe Burdette's mud-covered Blazer and stopped. He turned the engine off and sat there for a minute. This was going to take some thinking. And some backbone too. When he'd left the station, he wasn't real certain how necessary it was to pursue this lead. After all, it was a long shot and if it were wrong, as it almost certainly had to be, it would only antagonize the Burdettes (especially Joe) to no good end. Still, like Lieutenant Posner had said at the Louisville Police Class of 1954, you go where your nose takes you. And if that meant sticking it into a hornet's nest, then you'd better bring along the wet tobacco and compresses to take the sting out.

He got out and walked up the brick path to the front door. Under the yellow glare of the porch lights, he felt vulnerable and, after ringing the bell, turned and squinted back into the woods that surrounded the house on all sides. Somewhere beyond the thick stand of oaks and pines and chestnuts on the other side of the drive, the ground dropped off steeply and plunged down to the ravine where the Halloran camper had crashed, six years ago. Mosley shook himself out of it. There wasn't much use to thinking that way.

The door was unlocked and opened and he found himself face to face with the Mayor, a tumbler of good Scotch in one hand.

Sam Burdette nodded curtly and waved him in. "I hope this is important, Dick. I'm expecting company any minute. From Washington."

"I won't be long, Sam," Mosley said. He was conducted rather brusquely into a high-ceilinged study-library in the back of the house. The lights were down low and sitting in the high-backed leather chair ("Just like what the President sits in at the White House") behind Sam's oversized desk was Joe Burdette, scowling at the two of them over a crushed beer can.

"I thought you should see what I found last night."

Sam offered him a drink but Mosley turned it down, not without regrets. "Terrible thing, Dick. How long you reckon the girl had been dead?''

Mosley stood awkwardly as Sam dropped into a recliner beside an ornate highboy that dominated one wall. He used it as a filing cabinet. Sam made no move to offer him a seat.

"I'm having Ed Beeson check that out right now. We should know by morning but Ed said off-hand that it looked like it couldn't have been too long. Some of the blood was still wet.''

Joe stuck his boots up on Sam's desk, prompting a look of dismay from his brother. He worried at the big wart over his left eyebrow with a finger. "Why'd you want me to bring that hunting parka, Mosley? Gonna sniff it like a hound?" He laughed and picked up his crushed beer can, showing it to Sam, who immediately got up and replaced it with a fresh one. He slurped it noisily.

Mosley reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope. "I took some lint from underneath the girl's finger nails." His throat tightened: this was the area he had wanted to avoid, to run away from. "It's a greenish color. Probably came from her underwear; they had green lace. But I remembered that Joe had that parka with green lining inside of it and thought I'd better be sure." He managed to keep from looking over at the desk.

"You saying I cut that child to pieces?"

"No, no, of course not, Joe. There's no proof of that. And everybody knows you couldn't do that sort of thing." There's one for the record. "But it needs to be checked out. Routine police investigation." He looked hopefully at Sam.

The Mayor shifted a bit uncomfortably in his seat. He swirled the Scotch and polished it off. "I think what he's saying, Joe, is that he needs a sample of that lining to send to the State Crime Lab. Ain't that right, Dick? For comparison and all."

"Well, I'll be goddamned to Pluto and back," said Joe. He swung his feet down abruptly and sat up. "You acting like I was the prime suspect or something. You mean to tell me you got no better leads than that? Shit. You are just a damned troublemaker, Mr. Mosley and I'll--"

"Now, Joe, don't get so upset. Look out for your health. You can't go around getting mad like that." He picked out another ice cube to crunch on. "Chief, you've had some law training. What's your opinion about the evidence?''

Mosley wet his lips. "Well, to clearly and legally eliminate someone from suspicion, say you or Joe, I'd have to have the lining in that parka checked against the material under the girl's fingernails. There ain't no way around that."

"What if we just closed the books and called it a bear attack?" asked Sam. ''It's not unusual for these parts."

Mosley shook his head. "You and I both know that that sort of accident hardly ever happens. There aren't enough bears. And besides, I already read a small piece about the murder in the Charlotte Observer."

"How'd they get the information?"

"Rumor, probably. Someone passing through may have heard one of our people mention it."

"You think it was murder?"

Mosley nodded. "Yes.''

"Why?"

He shrugged. "The way the corpse was put back together. The way it was arranged in that sack. Bear wouldn't do that''

Joe snorted. "What the hell do you know about bears? Or anything, for that matter."

"He's just trying to help, Joe."

Joe lurched up out of the chair and walked over to the credenza. He picked up his old ratty parka and slung it at Mosley. "No, he's just trying to meddle where his nose don't belong. If you ask me, it's the Perrys and the Stockers and their kind that're behind this. Some folks just got it in for Burdettes, just like they always have in this town. Not that I'm surprised you can't see it, Sam. I think that white beard of yours has growed back into your brain and sucked all the smart out. Hell, maybe Mr. Mosley here just picked that lint up off the floor of his police car. Maybe he even hacked the girl to death himself. How do you know?"

"Joe, I don't think the Chief wants to hear all that."

"Shit, why not? It's high time people in this town started giving us a little respect. We been the barnyard boys ever since Pa brought us here. I'm sick to death of it."

"I know, Joe, but not here. Not now." He got up and went over to the wet bar above the television console, where he poured himself another tumbler-full. "Dick, you got to admit that the evidence for murder is pretty scanty. What would it take to keep the State out of this?"

"Well, since the news is already out, we'll have to launch some kind of investigation. That'll mean questions. And a piece of the lining will have to go to Raleigh." He spotted a crusty blotch inside the fur, a few inches inside of the zipper. He sniffed it for a second. It could have been dried blood. "You cut yourself, Joe? This blood in here?"

Joe stared poker-faced at him, an angry twitch to his cheek. "That's deer blood, Mr. Mosley. Me and Walt Ames went hunting last night. That okay with you?"

Sam was flipping idly through a book, the Scotch nestled securely in the crook of his arm. "Dick, why don't you go ahead and start your investigation. The sooner we get it over with, the better it'll be for the Lake. Turn over what you get to the County." He didn't see the incredulous look on Joe's face, but Mosley did. "I'm not going to be responsible for any mass panic in this town like there was before." He put the book down and fingered the residue around the rim of the tumbler into his mouth. "You've got two murders or accidents or whatever they are to look into. I think you'd better get to work right away."

Mosley snipped off a piece of the lining and put it carefully into a spare envelope he had brought along. "Yes, sir. You're surely right about that."

Sam led him back up to the front door. Joe followed. He said good-bye but Joe indicated that he wanted to have a word with him before he left. Sam shut the door behind them and they walked out into the grass by the edge of the woods. There was a stiff breeze blowing across the top of Bears Knob and Mosley's black hair streamed into his face.

"I have to do this, Joe. You know that. What kind of police officer would I be if I let leads like this go unchecked? I've kept the thefts and the vandalism down in this town. "

"Mr. Mosley, I don't know what kind of game you and your friends Alex Perry and Raymond Stocker are trying to play with me, but these threats and accusations had better stop or somebody is going to get hurt.''

"Now, Joe, you know I've got a job to do. The law's got to be enforced and I mean to do it."

"I think you know what I mean," Joe said. He turned and went back into the house.
Chapter 13

1.

The Saturday of Labor Day weekend was hot and humid in the mountains and many people took the opportunity to get out and have one last fling at summer. The turnstiles at Nicoll's Island clicked more often in two hours than they had the past two weeks. Jack Blanchard pleaded with Chief Mosley to let him re-open the Caverns, otherwise one of the biggest crowds of the year would be lost. Mosley said no at first; finally, faced with near rebellion among the town's merchants who desperately needed the business, he relented. He told himself it would be good to get everybody's mind off the terrible things that had happened that last week in August. Up at Table Top Stables, Louis Beems awoke to find the first line he could remember in months waiting patiently outside the gates.

Alex Perry had given in to his wife. Bette was right, he told himself. He really hadn't been feeling all that well lately. With fall and cold weather approaching, he should get a check-up now, before whatever it was he had got any worse. It had to be a lingering effect of the concussion; maybe the doctor would have something he could prescribe. He also wanted to have his left hand looked at.

It really was the strangest thing.

When he had awakened Friday morning, he had gone silently into the bathroom, making sure the door was locked. He didn't want Bette seeing his ruined hand. But when he had unraveled the bandages, crusty with dried blood and fluid, he had been amazed to see that the injury was not all that serious. As he studied the fingers, the skin and knuckles, expecting to see a badly pulped mess again, dreading it in fact, he couldn't find any evidence at all that his hand had been nearly ground to pieces in the gears of the Nicoll's Island carrousel.

Instead, all he saw was a swollen, purplish fist, looking for all the world as if he had dropped something heavy on it. The skin was scarred and nicked in places, a ghastly tint to it, and covered with bruises on top of bruises. His fingers were stiff--the middle one seemed slightly misshapen--but otherwise intact. With effort, and pain, he could flex it a little, although the bones and ligaments snapped and ached. There was no clue to the deformity it had been the night before; in fact, the more he examined his hand, the more he concluded that it had never been as serious an injury as he had first supposed.

Too much booze makes my old head see ghouls.

((aye and a dying man will hope for anything, won't he?))

He left the bandages on all day Friday, giving the thing no more thought. But upon waking this morning, he had gone into the bathroom to shower and shave and this time, he could not credit alcohol with what he was seeing.

But for a few minor scratches and one horrendous black bruise on the back of his palm behind the middle knuckle, his hand was as good as new. In fact, it seemed new. He wiped the steam off the mirror and studied his hand, his face, his eyes for a long time, so long in fact, that it took Bette's insistent knocking on the door to snap him out of it. He pinched his earlobe. Yes, I can still feel that. He rapped the knuckles of his right hand on the water basin. That hurts like it should. He intentionally nicked himself with the razor. A trickle of blood oozed out. Reassuring.

Then he sucked in his breath, ignoring Bette, and struck the tile of the wall as hard as he could with his other hand.

There was a slight tingling, some kind of feeling, but nothing like the pain he'd gotten out of his right hand. What the hell was going on? Did Cyrus Haley come in last night and amputate his whole arm and replace it with another? He shivered, remembering. At the carrousel, for just a few seconds, it had happened, hadn't it? Something had taken over, something had usurped his own will, and run his hand right into the--

((aye, even the impossible, laddie...))

''Alex, honey, is anything wrong in there?"

So he had finally succumbed to his wife's suggestion that he drive down to Atlanta and visit Dr. David Beecher. Beecher had been doctoring the Aldens for years and both Bette and her mother Mavis swore by him. He had an office in a professional building in the north Atlanta neighborhood of Sandy Springs, a three-hour drive by freeway from the Georgia-North Carolina state line.

Alex didn't mind leaving Scotland Lake for a day at all.

Georgia 400 was a four-lane divided road that wound its way through the rolling hills and light morning mists of the Blue Ridge until it finally connected with Atlanta's perimeter highway well to the south. It was a pleasant drive to make on a Saturday morning with sparse traffic heading for the city. Going the other way though, a steady stream of Atlanta cars filled the road, most of them headed for spots like Helen and Gatlinburg, Highlands and Cashiers. Alex wondered how many of them would find their way to the Lake.

None, if people like Joe Burdette have their way.

The time passed quickly enough and when a road sign came up saying ATLANTA 32 MILES, he realized that he had been daydreaming at the wheel. A kind of reverie had fallen over him in the last hour, helped by the hypnotic swaying of the car and the warm breeze he let in through the vent window. He shook himself out of it, or tried to, rolling down the side window to get a stronger blast of air. For some reason, he had been thinking about a driving rainstorm the last few minutes, although that was clearly silly. There were clouds in the sky, but the weatherman had promised a brisk, breezy hot day, with only a slight chance for showers. Still, the thought (or was it some kind of memory) nagged him and he briefly imagined the sensations of drowning.

((ah, she was a stunning mistress, Rose was, and I hadda wreck the Desmond Johnson to take her))

There was a bridge ahead, the turn-off to Alpharetta he noticed, and underneath was a hitchhiker. A girl in jeans and a yellow T-shirt, carrying a heavy knapsack stood beside the abutment, her thumb out. She seemed hot and tired, and Alex decided it was some teen-ager bumming to Florida or Atlanta. He slowed down, going past her, and pulled off into the gravel of the emergency lane.

She came jogging up to the window and leaned over.

"Get on in," Alex told her. She was a sunburned blonde, a little like an older copy of his cashier Renee, although considerably more developed. She wriggled out of her sack and climbed in, slamming the door.

"Thanks, mister. I'm beat. Been walking for six hours."

"Where you headed?''

"Daytona," she said, smoothing back her hair. She lay back in the seat and closed her eyes, making herself right at home.

"My name's Hank."

"Hank?"

''Short for Henrietta. But only my Aunt Nadine calls me that. Shit, I'm tired." She rolled up her jeans and made cuffs at the bottom, then examined her knees awhile. She was skinny in the legs, with bony knees, nicked and bruised pretty bad. She sucked in her breath as she touched an abrasion.

"You got any grass, mister? I'd love a good toke about now."

"Sorry." Alex shrugged and started up the car. "I'm fresh out. Look. I can take you as far as Atlanta but that's all."

"Oh, that'd be super. I've been thumbing all the way from Ohio and I think I'm gonna have to lay up in Atlanta for a few days, to recover. I'm about shot."

"My name's Alex, by the way." He waited for a truck to pass, then pulled out.

''Alex, huh?" She rolled that around her tongue for a second. "You a doctor, or something?''

He laughed. "No, nothing like that. Just a bookstore owner."

"Yeah? Hey, that's kind of interesting. You know where I could get an original edition of The Lord of the Rings? I love Hobbits. I even got a Middle Earth T-shirt in my pack--here let me show you."

They traded ideas about books for awhile, with Hank doing most of the talking. Alex wandered back and forth across the lanes, sometimes dodging traffic, sometimes just for the hell of it. His passenger didn't seem to notice; if she did, she decided it was cool and he could handle whatever he was on. The more she thought about it, the more certain she became. This dude's got some good shit stashed away. She started moving a little closer to him, cozying up, just to see if he wouldn't like to share some.

((a good lay, my son, you throw her down and pump her for all she's worth and I dinna care a pig's whistle about the screaming bloody fools drowning all around me))

Hank tickled him some and he squirmed and grabbed her around the neck, pulling her up against his side tightly. She was surprised he was so strong--he was a little man and he had the same build as that witless computer-loving nerd she had dated back for too long back in Dayton whatever his name was. A strange thing too, about this character Alex: he didn't seem to blink his eyes much. With what he's on, the road probably looks like taffv.

She glanced down at the dashboard and saw he had gotten the Nova up to eighty-five miles an hour.

There was a station wagon just ahead of them--Ohio plates, she saw. Full of screaming kids. It looked like they were playing rugby in the back. Mommy was yelling at them to calm down.

Much to her amazement, Alex eased his car up alongside the wagon. She tickled him under the chin, thinking you twerpy little snake why don't you tell me where you got that junk hid and we'll both see some cartoons, but instead her eyes grew wide and a nascent scream formed in her throat as Alex slowly but steadily closed the gap between the cars until at last the door handles touched and sparked; then the front fenders and the door panels and before the scream could coalesce and force its way out, he had hauled the steering wheel hard over to the left and slammed the station wagon so hard that the engine hood latch sprung and the hood popped right up and the driver of the wagon was so shocked that he lost complete control of his car and it went skidding on its side over the edge of a grassy bluff through the guardrail and down a shallow bank right into the black muddy waters of the putrid, sewage-clogged Gilliams' Creek,

An instant later, an orange fireball rocketed into the sky and their car was buffeted by the blast wave and heat of the explosion.

((me and Edward we fought mighty hard along the docks but he was a toy and I dragged him into the river and the poor devil never screamed so hard as when he saw the prickly fangs of me serpent's face))

Now his foot was heavy and the speedometer said a hundred and going up fast. Somewhere off in the distance, he heard a siren or was it a scream? A thin wail and she was struggling again, like Rose did, and oh god, he could have gone on like this for hours, for days, holding the slut in a vise, letting her bite and scream and scratch and claw--what matter! it was only a body he had borrowed--and carving such ornate little beads of bloody tooth pricks on her skin as ever an artist did think of. She was a dandy thing and he'd rip his way into her soon enough but he had to get control of the blasted body first--that wretched Edward's fighting me all the way down and he has to be subdued before I can taste the warm pulse of life again.

Hank struggled with every ounce of strength she could find but it was no use. The guy was just too strong and there she was, trapped in a bear hug next to some monster who got his kicks from running people off the highway at high speed. It was a bad, bad trip he was taking and she wanted no part of it but so what? He was some kind of robot and she knew for a fact, just like she knew she shouldn't have quit her job at the Frito-Lay factory and run off with that redshirted Ohio State jock that liked to gnaw on her butt till it was red and bleeding, she knew deep down inside, all the way down to her ventricles and capillaries, that she was going to die horribly in some flaming crash with this crazy man. She squirmed again, and this time managed to wrench her head free. She sunk her teeth into his forearm, drawing blood.

He was strong. Powerful. Like an animal. A bear. Like a bull. He bellowed out, testing his strength and shot over to the other lane, where a white Volkswagen puttered along at something under fifty miles an hour. Bingo! He caved in the door with that one. The driver fought the wheel, between glances at him, her mouth agape with horror until he slammed the Bug again and drove it off onto the shoulder, where it struck a crash barrier protecting a deep gully and flipped. It turned end for end three times in the air, before slamming down onto its side, skidding back out onto the road where it was broadsided by a dump truck bearing several tons of fill dirt. The impact set the car to spinning and pieces flew off in all directions.

"MISTER WILL YOU PLEASE LET THE HELL GO OF ME!"

A few hundred yards behind them, two teen-aged boys grinned at what they saw happening. The driver, who had earned his license a year and a half ago and liked to compete in the Funny Car drag races at the Dixie Speedway, gunned the engine of his Chevelle and the 395 under the hood rumbled and shot them forward until they were just abreast of the erratic Nova they had been following. His partner was even younger, had gotten his license the day before and rolled down the window on his side just as they came alongside. He leered over at Alex, slapping the side of the door and pointed down the road. ''Let's move, sucker!" he yelled,

Side by side, they raced down the freeway, forcing one car after another to swerve onto the emergency lane. In and out of traffic they darted, first one, then the other leading the way. Alex roared with laughter and pressed the accelerator as far down as it would go. Hank screamed as they topped a hundred and twenty.

They went over a slight rise and hooked fenders for a second, sending off a shower of sparks. Alex slammed the nose of his car against the teenagers', driving them off onto a soft shoulder for a second. The impact knocked the Nova sideways and they skidded in a squealing plume of black smoke for several hundred yards before straightening out. Alex gunned the engine and raced back onto the freeway, narrowly missing a motorcycle.

He drove with one hand, the left one, still bandaged, and fought angrily with Hank with his right hand. She squirmed in his grasp, biting and clawing at him.

"LET GO OF ME MISTER! DAMMIT--OUCH LET GO OF ME!"

She gouged at his eyes I sliced off her lips with my blade for that and Alex planted an elbow in her face. As she clutched at her broken nose, a trickle of blood leaking through her fingers, he took hold of her arm and gave her one last push.

The teenagers had regained their speed and were now hanging right off the rear bumper. They creeped forward until their front bumper nudged the car.

At the same instant he pushed Hank toward the unlocked passenger door. Alex swerved abruptly into the far left lane. The force of the turn, and the impact of Hank's weight against the door, was more than enough to spring it open.

They had already reached ninety when she fell out onto the asphalt.

The teenagers had no time to react. The Chevelle slammed into Hank head on and the impact itself was quite enough to bludgeon her to death. There was a sickening thump and the body was carried along underneath the car, caught between the muffler and the differential, for every one of the hundred and fifty feet it took them to stop. When at last they halted beside an overpass and that terrible clattering sound of bones being crushed had ceased, the two of them scrambled out of the car and dropped to the pavement to look underneath. The drag racing older driver was the first to lose his breakfast.

And not much more than three miles ahead, Alex Perry bellowed like an animal, now doing well over a hundred miles an hour and still accelerating. He couldn't tear his arms from the steering wheel and he bore down on a slower moving pack of cars in front of him with savage fury.

2.

The burial of little Suzie Costa was done as quickly and quietly as possible. It was a private ceremony: the very same Reverend Leo Stearns who had just finished putting poor Greta Blanchard to rest not two days before was called again to the little chapel of the High Haven Baptist Church for the service. This time, the Reverend seemed profoundly shocked by the necessity of his duty and muttered his way through the service without so much as a single glance at the stricken faces of the Costas. It seemed unfair, he thought as he tried to console the family after the casket had been lowered into the earth, that the Lord should smite his congregation with such tragedy twice in one week.

Bette Perry took it upon herself to see to Jeanne's well-being in the days ahead. That Saturday of the burial, while her husband was away at Dr. Beecher's down in Atlanta, she coaxed Jeanne out of lying dismally on the sofa in the family room with the velvet voice of Kenny Rogers in the background, and out to the back-to-school sale at Minton's Discount Store half-way along U.S. 129 to Robbinsville. It would do her good to get out.

She and Jeanne wandered the crowded aisles of the store for the best part of the afternoon. Bette bought a light jacket (denim with leather patches) and persuaded Jeanne that the gray sweater she had looked at for so long in the sportswear department just wasn't her and she'd like that tan one with the big cuffs a lot better. Jeanne offered little argument and Bette steered her over to the shoe department in the hopes that she could at least interest her friend in a new pair of sneakers.

They left Minton's at four, and put their bags in the back of Bette's station wagon. Driving back to the Lake, Bette chattered for awhile about things she and Frank ought to do. They could have a big dinner tomorrow afternoon; the weather was fine and it'd be great to grille some steaks outside. Alex was just dying to try out his new grille and he had never really stopped raving about the way Jeanne fixed potatoes, with all that delicious stuffing. Wouldn't that be a great idea?

Bette was determined she wasn't going to take her friend back to that somber, deathly quiet house, and leave her to grieve and mope around. Frank had to work and Jeanne wasn't the type to stay by herself for very long, despite what she had said when Bette first picked her up for the trip to Minton's. She was a people person and Bette knew it. She wasn't about to abandon her to grief and self-torment today.

"Why don't we go over to Tyson Field, Jeanne? There might be a softball game going on--there usually is on Saturdays."

She sat hunched up on the other side of the seat, staring listlessly out at the leaves drifting down from the trees in the town square. "I don't know. I don't really want to, Bette. My heart's not in it. Thanks."

Bette decided it was better to face up to it now. ''How's Frank taking it?"

Jeanne shrugged. "Not too badly. He has his work to keep him occupied."

Bette pulled off into the nearest parking spot she could find and turned off the engine. It was the Dairy Queen and the place was crawling with Little League teams celebrating victory. "That's what you need. Something to do, something to keep you busy."

"I...know it." Her voice cracked and she wiped her eyes. The kids, Bette suddenly realized. How could I be so stupid?

She started the car again and backed out. They had to get somewhere away from children for awhile.

"We're going for a little drive."

"Bette, you don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do. And besides, I want to." She whipped around the square, past the town hall and police station and Sam Burdette's bank. They stopped at the light, next to the Trimble Hotel, waiting for the green.

Jeanne sighed deeply. "I hate this town. God help me, Bette, but I do. I despise it with every bone in my body."

"Don't say that. You know you don't really mean it."

She wrung her hands. "Look what it's doing to us. We're all acting like animals to each other. Frank said somebody vandalized May's Flower Shop last night.'' She choked and broke down sobbing. Bette pulled out into traffic, ignoring the red light. "Frank and I came up here because we thought it was a good place to raise a child. He loves hiking, you know and so do I, I guess, but everything looked so clean and fresh around here back then. It's only been three years. Now...."

They headed down Scotland Avenue south, toward the Early Bird truck stop. Bette bit her lip and concentrated on her driving. She felt a solid lump in the back of her throat and knew she was fully capable of saying the very same things Jeanne was saying. She had said them, to Alex, to herself. Maybe by saying them, over and over like a chant, they could rid themselves of this awful plague. No, don't think like that. It's stupid. It's silly. It can't happen.

"The town`s just had a bad year, Jeanne." They turned down Branch Road. A spacious green valley opened off to their right. "It's affecting everybody."

Jeanne soaked up the view for a few minutes, then turned wet-eyed and said. "Have you ever sat down and had a real good talk with one of the older residents? Someone who's been here a long time?"

"Occasionally, I chat with Charlotte Beems. Or Toni Ames. Why?"

"Did you ever ask them what it was like here ten years ago? The Blood Years or whatever they call them."

"Jeanne, don't talk like that. It can't help matters by bringing that up."

"I overheard two women yesterday, when I was at May's to see about the floral arrangements. I didn't know them but they were over in that corner by the freezer door, in the back, and they were talking about it coming back. Starting over again, like a cycle or something. One of them even said it was the weather that causes it."

"Surely, you don't believe that nonsense."

"Oh, God, Bette, I don't know what to believe anymore. Frank's been acting strangely lately. There was a stabbing at the Early Bird last night. So many things .... "

Bette's throat went dry. "What's wrong with Frank?"

"I don't know. He's moody--he's always that way, I guess. Real tired a lot...irritable. He's been working pretty hard lately and I guess he gets it from his patients. The other day, he yelled at Suzie--" She stopped and buried her face in her hands. "--for...for, oh Jesus, Bette...for...drawing on the bathroom walls .... " She broke down again and cried.

Bette slowed down to take a sharp turn. They went by the Scotland Lake city limits sign and she had to brake again to avoid hitting a squirrel that had darted out into the road. Instead of streaking for the other side and the safety of the big pines clinging to the edge of the bluff, it raised up on its hind legs, right in the center of the lane, and bared its teeth at them. She brought the car to a screeching stop and caught her breath, thankful she hadn't hit it. A second later, the squirrel scooted out from under the car and scampered up into a tree, where it leered at them with huge black eyes.

Beyond the branches of the tree, the sawtooth peak of Hiker's Cap was visible, some miles distant. A thin trail of gray smoke curled around the top, the remnants of a careless visitor's campfire.

3.

The State Patrolman scribbled something down on his clipboard, then handed it through the window for Alex to sign. He initialed the ticket and gave it back.

"We're hopin' you have a nice, safe Labor Day weekend, sir," said the officer. He handed back Alex's part and touched the rim of his hat with the board. "I think you'll find Georgia a much more congenial place if you slow down a mite. Have a nice day now." He walked back to his patrol car and got in. A moment later, he pulled out and sped off down the freeway, his blue light still flashing.

Alex looked at the ticket. Eighty miles an hour? He shook his head. I must be in worse shape than I thought. As hard as he tried, he couldn't remember ever going much over sixty. He'd always been a safe, defensive driver. That cop needs to have his radar fixed. There's a lot more reckless drivers out there than me. He shook his head as he started up. They always go after the easy ones.

He completed the rest of the drive into Atlanta in good order and was interested to see what changes had come to the vast neon and car lot strip of Roswell Road since he had sold the Little Cambridge Bookshop and moved up to the Lake. Driving the last few miles through heavy morning traffic, he wasn't sorry he had sold the place. It had been a good location, in fact right across the street from the ten-story building where Dr. Beecher had his office, but the commuting distance was long and the traffic murderous at any hour. He did miss the amazing variety of restaurants that he used to choose for lunch however. It would be a long, long time before Scotland Lake ever hosted as many taco stands.

He pulled into the parking lot and took a ticket from the machine. Now I've got two. I'll probably get them mixed up.

Beecher's office was on the seventh floor and Alex rode the elevator up with two young blondes who had just emerged from Silvio's Hair Command beauty shop. They ignored him completely and chatted away in some incomprehensible mélange of New York twang and Southern drawl. They got out ahead of him at the seventh. A strong tail of perfume lingered after them.

Alex had to wait half an hour, not because the doctor was busy but because there was a loud argument at the desk over the charge payments of a plump, thick-legged woman with dark patches on her neck and throat. The feud eventually involved the doctor himself and so it wasn't until nearly one o'clock that Alex was ushered into the cold tile room.

Beecher was a gray-bearded rodent of a man, given to puffing on big black cigars when not otherwise examining his patients. He had a wry sense of humor and an office full of family portraits, most of them of his seven daughters. He shook hands and listened thoughtfully as Alex explained some of the symptoms he had been suffering.

Beecher's first request was to see the bandaged left hand. Alex unwrapped it and watched as the doctor carefully scrutinized the damage. He clucked and hmm'ed for a few minutes, occasionally inquiring if a certain type of pressure caused pain. In the end, he looked up puzzled. "Did you drop a TV or something on this?"

Alex knew there was certainly no way he could tell the man the truth. He didn't believe it himself. The very same hand he thought had been crushed in the gears of the carrousel now seemed almost normal. It did in fact look a lot like he had dropped something heavy on it and that was the explanation Alex finally put forth.

"How well can you flex it?"

Alex showed him. It was still stiff but he managed to rotate the wrist and move the fingers with a fair degree of success. Beecher recommended keeping an ice pack on it for several hours each day. "I don't believe you have any arteries or veins burst but just in case, we'll do an X-ray."

Alex was set to protest, wondering just what an X-ray would show. But he agreed at last, partly because he himself was curious.

Beecher gave him a short physical and questioned him closely about his eating, sleeping and exercising habits. When he was through, he asked Alex to dress and come back to his office, before going down the hall to the lab for the X-ray and blood tests.

Beecher lit a cigar and motioned for Alex to have a seat. He leaned back in his own chair and puffed contentedly.

Alex gazed up at the stacks of medical volumes. "You seem to be healthy enough, Mr. Perry. Nothing major. You do have a slight fever, blood pressure up a tad. That's about it. You may be susceptible to the flu--it won't be long before the season will be upon us. I'm going to prescribe something for those headaches--it's a relaxer that you can have refilled. You seem a bit tense to me."

Alex admitted the speeding ticket and was hopeful that would satisfy him. But Beecher wasn't through.

"Is there anything else you'd like to say, anything else you'd like to tell me?"

He played with the idea of describing the odd snippets of memory he had been having, but decided against it. There would always be a psychological explanation for it, one that was airtight and probably true. He had no proof; how could you prove something like that?

"No, Dr. Beecher, nothing I can think of. Other than feeling tired a lot."

"Tired? In what way?"

Alex shrugged. "General fatigue. The way you feel when you've stayed up too late. I've been feeling kind of washed out lately."

'`Hmmm. Well, the blood tests should turn up anything serious. You run a bookstore, isn't that right?"

"Yeah. Not what you'd call hard manual labor. Sometimes, for no reason at all, my arm and leg muscles will cramp and feel like they've been used real hard. My back will ache. My neck will be sore. I even get a sexual feeling, the way it is when you've just come."

"How long does this last?"

"Not usually very long. A few minutes. An hour. Then it goes away, but I still feel tired. And my energy level varies. One minute, I'll feel as dead as an ox, and the next minute, I can't sit still. Doesn't make much sense, does it?"

Beecher puffed thoughtfully. "What you're telling me sounds like the incipient stages of a nervous system trauma. I can recommend a good neurologist, if you want. Leonard Paulus, downtown"

"I don't know, doctor. Sometimes, I think I'm just imagining all this. Grandmother's death was quite a shock; maybe I haven't gotten over it yet."

"That's entirely possible, of course. From my examination, you seem in good health., except for looking a little run-down. Why don't I give you Dr. Paulus' number and if you have any other spells like you're talking about, you can give him a buzz."

"That would be fine."

Beecher closed the manila folder and stood up, brushing off some ash from his vest. "You know, the brain is a complicated instrument, Alex. There are places in there we may never get to and subtleties we may never understand. But please don't feel ashamed to seek more help if you think you need it. At some time in his life, practically everyone has an inner beast to stare down. You see what I'm saying?"

"I think so. You're right, of course.'' He stood up and they shook hands. "Well, thanks for seeing me."

Beecher pointed him in the right direction to find the laboratory and Alex was soon lying on the X-ray table, his eyes following the splendid legs of one of the technicians. Her name was Evelyn and they chatted amiably enough during the process. Twenty minutes later, he had had two blood samples taken and his finger bandaged. He rode the elevator back down to the parking lot and got out.

Well, at least he had finally done it. Bette couldn't complain about that. He felt better having seen a doctor although the man had done very little. Maybe he had just needed to get away from the Lake for awhile. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more appealing the idea of a little two or three-day vacation seemed. They wouldn't be able to go far, not with Marcy starting at Miss Littleton's. Perhaps, a weekend at the beach; he could even call Grace and see if her husband still owned that cottage on the Outer Banks. August had not been a kind month at all, what with the funeral and two grisly murders in the town. He felt like he had been living in a daze the past few weeks and it was high time to clear away the fog and see straight for a change.

Maybe I'm just getting to be a hypochondriac in my old age.

The walk from the elevator to his car took several minutes. He had parked near an exit ramp so as to be able to get out quickly. It was after one and he was starved. A big fat hamburger and a Coke would taste mighty good about now.

He hadn't noticed the deathly silence until he fumbled with his car keys and inadvertently dropped them. It was then that he realized he had heard nothing but the chatter of his own thoughts ever since he had left the building. He stood up abruptly and strained to hear something. There was nothing. No cars honking, no airplanes buzzing overhead. Nothing. He spied a clump of leaves skittering across the pavement. Nothing. All around him, no matter which way he turned, a hush had descended. He opened his mouth to speak, felt the vocal cords vibrating but no voice came out. He was stone deaf and a violent shudder went down his back.

What on earth--

He turned and walked quickly, then ran back toward the building. Yet, somehow, he could not seem to make his arms and legs do what he wanted them to. He stopped, afraid he would fall flat on his face. There was no one around to witness what happened next.

He clutched the side of a concrete pillar and held on tightly. An uncontrollable twitch had developed in his arms. It had started at the point of his shoulder, a sharp prick slashing down his arm toward his hand. When he looked, half expecting to see a trickle of blood where he had probably scraped it against the cement, he saw nothing. And then the arm jerked crazily, like it had been stung, convulsing of its own accord until it finally struck the pillar so hard that a gash did appear.

He attempted to stop the fit with his other hand but it too failed to obey. He screamed. not knowing if he could be heard and nearly lost his balance. His left leg came up quickly and kicked the rear fender of a car so hard it jarred him for a second. He tried to put it firmly down but it gave way and he collapsed to his knees, still shaking. By this time, his right hand was badly scraped and bruised and the concrete pillar was smeared with blood from several deep cuts.

Not this again--not my other hand--

He tried to control his arms by jamming them into his pockets. They trembled wildly once he had gotten them in and he took advantage of a momentary lull in the convulsion to get on his feet and run the rest of the way back to the building. He stumbled once and his right hand came out. It clung tenaciously to a railing beside the elevator and he thought for a second that he might have to wrench the thing out of its socket in order to make it let go. Finally, he worked himself free and dived into an open elevator. He punched the first button he could reach and sank back against the wall.

The elevator rose for a few minutes, humming quietly, and halted at the second floor. The doors parted and in stepped two men, both smartly attired in three-piece suits. They stopped short when they spotted Alex slumped against the back panel, his arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders. His head and hands trembled.

"You okay, mister?" said the taller man. He stooped down but Alex jumped as though pinched when he touched him. "Hey, don't be scared. I'm not gonna hurt you." He and his com- panion helped Alex back to his feet.

"Thanks." Alex licked at the scrape on the back of his hand. He brushed himself off and looked at the men sheepishly. "I must have passed out or something."

The dark-haired shorter man sucked on a toothpick. "Looks like you could use a drink, chum. See a ghost or something?"

"No." Alex laughed weakly. "No, really, I'll be all right. Thanks." He stepped out and let the doors close, smiling awkwardly at the two puzzled faces he had left behind. When the next elevator came by, he took it back down to the parking lot.

The fit seemed to be over but Alex walked slowly and carefully back to his car. He had twisted a muscle in his shoulder in the convulsion and it throbbed with every step. When he reached his car, he saw his keys still on the pavement. Gingerly, he bent over to pick them up.

This time, he knew immediately when it was coming. The noise of the street fell off abruptly and his head split in a searing impulse of pain. His fingers grew stiff but he managed to get the car door open and crawl inside before he lost complete control of his limbs. The door latched gently shut just as the worst of the fit struck.

How long he thrashed about on the seat and in the floor wells of his car, Alex never knew. It could have been a second, it could have been hours. Some vicious, malignant entity was inside of him--there was no longer any question about it. This wasn't psychological, it was maniacal. He had little choice but to give in to it and try to hang on as best he could. Eventually, the storm would spend its fury and slacken and then he could regain some measure of control over himself. He hoped.

When it was over and he lay face down with his nose pressed against the vent handle, drained and sweat-soaked, he fought for a little breath and pushed himself back up to a sitting position. In the rear-view mirror, his face was a battlefield. Puffy bruises blossomed under his eyes and his hair was plastered against his forehead. A painful knot over his right ear made him grimace, even more than the cut under his nose and the bad sprain in his neck. He reached down for a Kleenex and daubed at the blood around his lips and nostrils. Staring back at him in the mirror, a pale, battered face blinked furiously.

What the hell is wrong with me?

He wasn't even surprised when the expression on that face began to change, evolving slowly from one of fatigue and defeat to one of livid terror, and finally to a cruel leering, leaden-eyed smile, smirking contemptuously back at him. It wasn't the same person--that was impossible. A phantom hand had re-shaped it, like so much sculptor's clay, re-worked it into something cold and malicious and savagely inhuman. The lips were all wrong, the incisors much too sharp, the eyes black and deep like something dredged from the muck of the ocean's abyss and inside, oh God, inside the mouth, the horror of it came slithering back, the wormy flesh, the desiccated tongue writhing at him, the reptilian hiss, the pustules, the scars, the--

"NOOOO!" he screamed and banged the mirror down from the windshield. A low growl gurgled at the back of his throat.

((do you like what you see, mate, because it's what you are))

"No, get away, get out, leave me alone .... ''

((oh, come now, don't toy with me, perry—you'll not be rid of me that way))

He sat up straight. They were coming, the clip-clop, he could hear it. He picked up the mirror and looked into it and his throat went dry as the memory came flooding back.

Cold dismal rain pattered down on the cobblestones. He hung back in the shadows of the alley, beside the tavern, waiting for the message to be delivered. Two miles distant, up at the woods end of Meeting Street, he had set the fire and by now the flames were gutting the upper stories of Julian's mansion. Any second now and the boy would come charging out for his horse.

And I can dump this burned out husk of a body for a new home.

The broad oak door slammed open. Men spilled out into the street, arguing. There was a fight, a stabbing. A body slumped into a pool by the step, face down. More shouting. From the livery, a pair of horses were brought round. They glistened in the orange torchlight of the tavern, skittish and supple, ready to fly. Up he went, the fine lad named Julian, adjusting himself in the saddle. He took the reins and the mount bolted at his kick.

Here the fool comes.

He waited for the moment, just the right moment, and when it came, there was no hesitation, for he had long since submerged the piteous whining and weak efforts of the mind he had once supplanted in this body. Every inch of it, from the noblest thought to the tiniest hair follicle, was his, had been his for decades, utterly compliant to his ruthless will, his and his alone, as they all were. It did as he said and when Julian's horse rounded the corner and clattered across the cobblestones, he gave the body one final command to move, to step carefully and quite deliberately right out in front of that charging steed, step now, goddamn you! and feel the sickening impact as the beast trampled him to death.

Oh, we swirled and we twirled and we danced till dawn and a-live, a-live-oh, a-live, a-live-oh, we'll love ya, we'll love ya, sweet Molly Malloy; alive, alive-oh, alive, alive-oh, you'll never, you'll never be quite the same boy....

He dropped the mirror into the floor well of the car and started violently for a minute, his shoulders twitching spasmodically. All of a sudden, he wasn't so cold anymore. No sir, he was warming up, shifting toward that warm fire now and it felt so good on his aching bones, just a little closer, kinda gets the kinks out, doesn't it? You can sure feel that cold rain in your bones a long time. A loud, crackling fire, that's all you need. Let that old heat just seep right in and spread out; wonderful thing fire is. Don't know what men ever did without it. Just move on up and relax and we'll get all those joints and muscles to working like they should be. Smooth and easy and tingling just right--

"No."

((oh. yes))

"NO!" He kicked open the car door, oblivious to the leering grin that lingered in the depths of the mirror before finally vanishing. and climbed out. I'm going to have me the strongest drink the human race has ever seen.

((me too, you worthless limey))

"Shut up."

He left the parking lot altogether and walked back up Roswell Road to the Steak and Ale on the corner. It was early afternoon, by the look of the sun. His watch had come off in the car and he wasn't certain of the time anymore. Not that he cared. He pushed open the doors and entered the cool dark wood-paneled lobby. A young brunette hostess came smiling up to ask where he would prefer to sit. But he didn't see her and brushed by on his way to the bar.

He picked out a booth in the corner and when the waitress came by, he ordered a double vodka martini, straight up. It came a few minutes later and he poured the fiery liquid down until it hurt to swallow.

My God, I'm shaking like a kitten.

He turned the glass up and drained it, before setting it down on the table again. He knew he would have to order another. And maybe another after that. He swore to himself that he'd polish off as many as he needed to get rid of that dreadful sound in his ear.

All he could hear now was the shrill hissing rumble of a furious thunderstorm breaking. That and the wretched snickering in the background.
Chapter 14

1.

Jack Blanchard was glad that Ray Stocker had decided to come out to Nicoll's Island and supervise final repair work on the carrousel. Jack had convinced the man that it would be smart to let Red Beavers have a look at the mechanism before cranking the ride up again. While they were arguing about whether the machine would need completely new bearings or not, Ray sent Jack back to shore to watch the office and, in the unlikely event that a paying customer actually showed up, to hand out the tickets and collect the money.

Jack knew that was about as likely as a three-dollar bill.

Instead of staying at the office in the little cottage by the boat ramps, Jack called up his friend Sandy Stearns and proposed that they spend a few hours at the other end of the lake, fishing in a secluded cove on the far side of that big unnamed island down by one end of the Pioneer Dam. That is, if Sandy could get off from his work at the Top Flite station. When Jack told him there would be a little liquid refreshment, Sandy assured him he could get off.

Jack borrowed a canoe from among the several that Ray kept at the pier, in case something should happen to the ferry. As he was returning from his car, where he kept a few lines and some bait just for occasions like this, Sandy drove up. They got their tackle and gear together, threw it into the canoe and set off for the far end of the lake.

It was a languid, hot Saturday afternoon and hordes of flies and mosquitoes buzzed across the surface of the water. The sky was bright blue with patchy clouds; a brisk northeast wind stirred the lake into a light chop. Jack paddled close to the eastern shore, in sight of the grass bluffs, in order to avoid the breeze.

The distant southeastern comer of Scotland Lake curled like a broken thumb from the main body of water. Alternately rowing and coasting, Jack maneuvered them around a tree-lined headland and into that stagnant stretch of water. The shores on either side--and it was no more than a hundred yards from shore to shore--were thick with reeds and rotting tree limbs, while a thin layer of greenish scum clung together in the shallower parts.

There was one particular spot, about twenty yards from the western shore, where the lake bottom dipped a little deeper than anywhere else, and the water ran a little colder. Jack let the aluminum canoe drift slowly toward that spot and when they had reached it, he dropped a homemade anchor over the side to keep them there. The coffee cans full of rocks sank quickly and plunged into the soft mud at the bottom and Jack and Sandy got their lines baited and cast them out a short distance from the side. Then, they opened two cans of beer and settled back against some ratty old cushions to chat and meditate.

Jack Blanchard knew, of course, that should his boss find out what he was doing, it would very probably mean the end of his job at the park. He smiled at the thought and decided he no longer cared. Greta's death had opened up a lot of possibilities and the future seemed brighter than it had in a long time. At the very least, he told himself, he could take over Cathedral Caverns and run it himself. It shouldn't be too hard; he had worked there himself in the summers and the Caverns had been owned by his family for almost thirty years. Greta had seen to it that most of her estate would revert to Jack's name upon her death. All that remained was to sign a few papers and the property would be his, to do with as he wished.

The truth was, he wasn't even sure he wanted to stay in the Lake any longer. The thought of what he might get from the sale of the Caverns prompted a delicious smile. If he got a good price, he could even buy out Raymond C. Stocker, the old tyrant. He had to laugh at that, seeing in his mind the bug-eyed reaction such a proposal would cause. But, really, what was there for him in the Lake anymore? Sell the damn place, take the money and scoot for Atlanta or Florida. He could easily envision himself ensconced in some luxurious oceanside condominium, maybe with Sue Kemmons there to wait on him and feed him and love him whenever he felt like it.

Yes, sir, the more he thought about it, the more agreeable that particular line of thinking seemed. He downed the rest of the beer, oblivious to the gentle, tugging on the bobber at the end of his line, and asked Sandy to hand him another one.

He didn't know quite what to make of Sue anymore. He liked the girl, maybe he even loved her at times (certainly he had a few months ago) but she was harder to figure out than one of Raymond Stockyard's fits. What was it she had called him that teary night after the scene at Sneaky Sam's: "derailed" or "off the track, or something like that? She was a walking conscience, just like that sniveling snitch of a supply sergeant at Ton Son Nhut that had squealed on the Wild Weasel pilots for diverting liquor from the wing commander's private stock. He couldn't explain why held gone for her so quickly when he'd first seen her at Mr. Perry's Moonlight Café. She was attractive enough, with her cheerleader grin and blond curls, but even so. it was irritating the way she kept after him to show up at the VA Hospital in Atlanta on time.

I must enjoy being tortured to keep running after tail like that.

Jack cast his line out again and lay back against the pillow, rocking the boat a little as he got himself more comfortable. He watched a flock of starlings flutter away from the tallest oak on shore, screeching across the sky like they had just been shot at and reflected on just what kind of life he could make in the Lake now that he wasn't just Greta Blanchard's poor kid anymore.

The more he thought about it, the more it seemed to him that Scotland Lake was doomed as a livable place. Not just because of the recession or the gas crisis or the lack of tourist revenue. It went deeper than that; down to the very heart and guts of the town, down to the muck and the cesspool where people like the Burdettes and Louis Beems and Ray Stocker and others like them seemed to thrive. The way the town had reacted to the two gruesome murders was very interesting. Jack imagined that Miss America would react the same way if she looked in the mirror one day and found her face full of warts. There was a growing sense of foreboding in the air and you could go right down to the Town Pantry and see it in the faces of the shoppers, who scuttled in, did their buying and evacuated the place like it was infested with the plague.

The Lake had never been known for its scintillating night life, unless you counted the brawls at the Early Bird Truck Stop. Even those weren't as entertaining as they used to be. But at least in years past, during the height of tourist season, and especially around major holidays like Labor Day, the streets and sidewalks around the square weren't deserted at seven o'clock. Once there had been people sitting on the benches beneath the steady gaze of Daniel Boone, sometimes well past nine or ten o'clock in good weather. And there had been animated arguments among the permanent tenants of the Trimble Hotel, who liked to gather on the wide front veranda of that old building in the cool dusk light with their newspapers, used to chase away flies and not to read, and their goblets of sour mash and vodka. Occasionally, there had even been a line of sorts at the Strand Theater, especially when something like a Bruce Lee film was showing.

But now, even the Dairy Queen had started turning out its lights at ten on weeknights.

The Lake was dying and there was no way around that inescapable fact. A few years from now, maybe a decade, the houses and the buildings would be empty and not long after that, the weeds and the kudzu would begin to re-assert themselves. The bears and the raccoons and the beavers and the snakes would reclaim what had once been theirs. In the meantime, the people of the Lake would probably go on killing each other and huddling like hunted animals behind the doors and drapes of their tightly-locked homes.

It would be better to get out now, before things got any worse.

2.

That same afternoon, no more than a mile or so from where Jack Blanchard and Sandy Stearns were holed up fishing, two men stalked their prey through the thickest part of the woods that lay north and west of the lake. Both were expert woodsmen, silent and smooth in their movements through the brush. Both of them knew the trees and trails of this particular stand of forest better than any animal and they crouched low, stepping carefully around some dry thatch, as they worked their way downwind of their prey.

Walt Ames was counted among the men of Scotland Lake who liked to talk of such things as one of the very best hunters in the area. He was quick and smart, with a sound knowledge of the best blinds for lying low in wait for game. He was an expert marksman, with rifle and bow and arrow, and he knew how to think like his prey enough to keep one step ahead no matter where his quarry led him. He had a room full of trophies at his house on West Ramp Road and the best collection of Winchesters and Enfields in six counties. The men at Smitty's Perch had long made legends out of some of his more spectacular kills.

But for all his experience and skill and trophies and stories, Joe Burdette was by far the better hunter. And his weapon was the crossbow.

They came to an open patch of ground near a huge, black mossy tree stump. Joe bent down and studied the dirt for a few minutes, while Walt closed his eyes and let the wind bring the sounds of the forest to his ears. There were fresh tracks on the ground and as Joe stood up and slung the quiver of bolts back over his shoulder, he muttered. "Whitetail deer, if I'm not mistaken." They set out again, cutting back through the tangle of fallen limbs on the other side of the stump, heading in the general direction of Cathedral Caverns. In the distance, the faint snapping of twigs could be heard.

Joe Burdette knew that as a rule-of-thumb, a good bowman needed to get within forty to fifty yards of the whitetail to have a good chance at a kill. Even a close approach didn't mean much if there were limbs or foliage in the way. A twig the size of a finger could deflect an arrow just enough to make it miss. The archer's dream was an open shot at forty yards range, aiming right for the lungs just behind the point of the shoulder.

They spent twenty minutes circling and circling, through tough brambles and undergrowth, trying always to stay downwind of the animal and intercept it before it could disappear in the steep pine-clogged hills stretching west toward Robbinsville. Twice, they found good blinds in which to lie in wait, but each time, the animal veered away unexpectedly and took off on another path. Walt grew frustrated at the stubbornness of the creature and secretly wished they had thought to bring their bolt-action Winchester Model 70s so they wouldn't have to get in so close to shoot. But he knew that wasn't Joe's way and so he continued circling inside a fringing line of timber, Joe right behind him, hoping and hoping that this time, the damned animal would come their way.

Somewhere maybe half a mile from the parking lot of Cathedral Caverns, where the ground rose up sharply to meet the high flanks of the mountain under which the caves lay, they found a spot in which to burrow themselves. Something small and quick had been paralleling their path for the past ten minutes; perhaps it wasn't a deer after all but a rabbit or a fox or a chuck. Whatever it was, it seemed to be completely unaware of their presence and Walt watched quietly from the sanctuary of his own camouflage a few yards away as Joe extracted a quarrel from his sack and placed it in the groove of the bow. He fitted the butt of the bolt against the stock and winched it up tight, turning the crank over and over until his forearm muscles shook from the effort. The tension was so tight that his foot nearly slipped out of the stirrup, but he finally had the bow ready and then he settled back against the damp scaly bark of an oak and waited.

Walt hitched up his arm guards and did the same, thankful for the leather fingertips that prevented the skin from being flayed right off should the bolt accidentally fire. He found himself a place to crouch and placed his finger gingerly on the trigger.

They waited patiently for a few minutes.

There was a brisk rustling of the bush about twenty yards ahead of them. Walt leveled his bow at the point he expected the deer to emerge and raised it to his eyes, sighting right through the branches. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Joe do the same. The rustling grew louder and shortly there came the sound of panting, then the vicious squeal of something being attacked.

A black ball of fur tumbled out of the brush. Walt's fingers closed on the trigger and the tension increased until he knew it was just at the point of firing. A second later, the ball of fur stood up and shook itself free of dirt, growling at a chipmunk that had scurried beneath a fallen limb. It raced over and began digging furiously at the ground, trying to get at the chipmunk. Walt's fingers relaxed ever so slowly on the trigger.

"It's a goddammed dog," he muttered. He lowered the bow and stood up.

"Shhh!" hissed Joe. He waved his partner back down. "We came to hunt and we're gonna hunt." He readied his bow for the shot.

The dog was so engrossed in its tussle with the chipmunk that it hadn't heard or smelled them. It was a sprightly little black Pekingese, caked with mud and cobwebs and what looked to be a patch of dried blood stain on its back. Probably got into a scrap with a possum, Walt thought to himself. Cute little fellow.

"Joe, you ain't gonna kill that, are you? No sport to killing a damn dog."

"Shut up!" he growled back. "I got my mind set on killing something and I ain't about to stop now." He raised the bow and aimed.

"Just like Squawky Douglas, huh?"

At that instant, the crossbow jerked sharply as it loosed its deadly bolt. The quarrel slashed through the air like an elongated bullet and ripped right through the belly of the little Peke. The dog's neck snapped with the impact and its sharp yelp was quickly throttled. It sank to the ground, thrashing wildly for a few seconds, then died a bloody, quivering mess.

Joe lurched out of the bushes and went over to the animal. A steady stream of blood pulsed out of the massive wound in its side. He scuffed some dirt over the corpse and turned to face Walt, who was coming up behind him.

"Joe, what in the world did you want to do that for?" He bent down to examine the tag around its neck.

Joe scowled, fiddling with his bow. "Don't you ever bring up Squawky Douglas again, Walt. That's finished. You know damn well why we had to get rid of him." He placed the head of the bow on the ground and, with his foot in the stirrup, started winching in another quarrel. "Besides, I thought you were going yellow on me there. This is a hunt club and we're gonna hunt, goddamnit."
Chapter 15

1.

Alex was tired and yawning when he finally pulled into his garage sometime after seven o'clock Saturday evening. He cut the engine and got out, taking the broken rear-view mirror over to his little workbench in the back. He was annoyed that it had come off but it couldn't be helped. He frowned, thinking of what it had shown him a few hours before. Settle down, boy, settle down. A good hot meal and a shower and everything will be just fine. To prove it, he glanced down at the cracked face of the mirror one last time. His throat tightened for a second, but there was nothing. A simple reflection, that's all, fractured by the cracks in the glass into several grotesque shapes.

He went into the kitchen from the garage door.

"Bette!" She wasn't in that room. Probably in the den. "Bette, I'm back." He walked across the linoleum and through the swinging doors to the family room. Jimmy came racing up behind him and practically jumped on his back.

"Dad, take us to a movie!" He clung like a monkey around Alex's neck and was carried that way into the family room. Marcy was playing with their cat Punjab, a big gray Siamese.

Alex tossed his son onto the sofa, saying. "Not tonight, Jimbo. The old man's tired. Where's your Mother?"

"Right behind you, dear." The voice had come out of the living room and Alex whirled around ready to kiss his wife and ask about dinner. He stopped short, his hands stretched out for a nice big hug, when he saw they had company. His mouth dropped open in astonishment.

It was Rita Donze.

She was dressed in a severe dark blue dress with a black collar. Her face was drawn and stern—she regarded Alex with cold contempt.

"Rita." Alex started to extend a hand but found he could not. He dropped the idea to avoid embarrassment and looked questioningly at his wife. "What are you doing here?" The hard edge to his voice surprised Bette.

"She came up to see how you were, Alex." Bette said. She took her husband's hand and squeezed it firmly, saying in effect, 'Behave yourself.' A look of loathing had settled on Alex's face and she couldn't understand it. What was going on between them? "You must be delighted to see her, considering the distance she's come, aren't you, honey?"

Alex nodded grimly. and evidently with great reluctance.

Bette added, "I invited Rita to have dinner with us tonight. I thought we could grille some steaks. And she'll be staying overnight too, since it's such a long drive back." She waited to see what his reaction would be. Alex bent over and picked up Marcy, giving her a light kiss.

"That'll be fine, Bette. I'm glad Rita showed up." His eyes narrowed and he tickled his daughter under her chin, causing her to giggle. "I'm sure we have a lot to talk about."

"Good." said Bette, with more emphasis than she meant. "Honey, why don't you get the steaks going and I'll fix Rita another sherry."

Alex put Marcy down and she scooted off after Punjab, who slid under the sofa to get away from her. He left for the kitchen without saying another word.

Bette left their guest to keep the kids company and she seemed to be good at it, for long past their normal dinner, time, when they would have been racing back and forth through the house throwing pillows and shoes at each other, she had them together on the rug in front of the fireplace, absolutely spellbound with some long and mysterious tale. Every now and then, Bette would leave off her work at the chopping block in the middle of the kitchen, where she was dicing vegetables for a chef's salad, and take a peek into the den. She smiled at the way Rita had completely captivated her children, and especially at the way Jimmy lay on his stomach on the floor, mouth wide open, his left hand protectively on top of his sister's right arm. She sighed and went back to work. If only they behaved like that all the time. I'll have to learn her secret.

She just could not figure her husband out these days. He had known Rita for practically his entire life, and had almost always spoken of her in fond, even reverential terms. She was outwardly an enigmatic woman, dignified, even arrogant to those who did not know her well. She was beautiful for a woman of her age and Bette envied her for it. She must have been stunning as a younger woman, she thought, with those cat's eyes and high cheek planes, and the slender elegant nose. She was so tall, so trim, almost bony, yet she easily dominated a room full of people by sheer force of bearing. She had straight black hair, of very fine texture, which tonight she had let coil about her ears and shoulders in smooth, barely braided tresses. And the eyes. Bette stopped dicing for a second. She did have the most luminous, fiercely brown eyes of any woman Bette had ever seen, real or otherwise. Really, she was a striking woman and Bette looked forward to chatting with her after dinner. She wanted to find out exactly what it was be- tween her and Alex.

They had reacted the very same way in that hospital room in Savannah.

From the bay window in the breakfast nook, Bette could see Alex out back, surrounded by smoke as he tended the steaks on the grille. He leaned casually against a brick patio wall-- they had put that patio in a few months after moving in--and periodically he glanced up at the back windows of the house. If he saw his wife standing in one of those windows, a worried frown on her face, he gave no sign of it. But neither did he take his eyes off the screened door for very long.

She really didn't know what to do and went back to finish the salads and check on the potatoes in the oven. She loved her husband more than she could say and she had thought that moving out of the city and up to this secluded hamlet in the mountains would be good for all of them. The store was doing as well as could be expected, the kids were growing up healthy and bright, she had good friends in Jeanne Costa and Jasmine Stocker and they had the most gorgeous and poetic scenery anyone could want right out their back door. She ought to be happy, she knew that. She ought to be satisfied. Their lives were improving and their marriage was sound. Yet something troubled her, something chewed at the fringes of her mind, and it had to do with Alex. He was different now, from what he had been. The trip to Savannah and the funeral had changed him in subtle yet noticeable ways. She couldn't blame it on the explosion, although she had for weeks now. She had read once, probably in some magazine at the dentist's office, that a human being's personality grew and expanded like a tree, with more and more limbs and branches and off-shoots, ever more complex and elusive as time went on, expanding and radiating in unpredictable and marvelous ways. Maybe, she had somehow failed to allow for the fact that people change, even husbands. Maybe she had continued to see Alex as he was several years ago, or last week. Could a man change that quickly? Alex had, she couldn't deny it. The analysis both intrigued and distressed her at the same time. The most bothersome thing of all, if all that was true, was where might it lead? Which of those multiple, ever-dividing branches would their relationship take?

She looked down at the green peppers she had cut and diced to nearly nothing. What a mess. But she could not rid herself of a gnawing apprehension. It annoyed her mightily that she had no answer to that question.

They sat down to dinner shortly after 8:30, just as the last light of day disappeared and a gentle breeze stirred the branches of a big persimmon tree against the window screen of the dining room. For atmosphere, Bette had decided they should eat by candlelight and she smiled at the exaggerated efforts of Marcy and Jimmy to emulate the careful table manners of their guest. Why can't I get them to do that? she wondered.

Bette made small talk about anything she could think of. She learned a little of Rita's background, although the woman was restrained and curt in Alex's presence, not to the point of rudeness, but far from the cordial graciousness she had shown upon their first surprise meeting at the front door.

Rita was American by birth, having been born in Miami, but her parentage was Dominican and she showed her Latin heritage to beautiful effect. Rafael and Pilar Buendia Donze Gutierrez had come to America in the 1920s, settling in southern Florida where there had been a speculative building boom set off by Henry Flagler's railroad extension at the time. They were industrious and pious people and Rafael soon took a job as a bookkeeper for the Las Casas Madrid Hotel, in the newly burgeoning community of El Portal along Miami's 87th Street. The pay was good but the work didn't last and Rafael soon lost his job along with thousands of other in the great mid-20s bust that struck the area.

Adjusting to the pace and confusion of American life wasn't easy and eventually the family could no longer support itself. Rafael took his wife and five children and moved north along the coast until they came to Savannah. There, he secured a job cleaning and tending the yachts and sloops of the wealthy at the Tybee Creek Yacht Club in Savannah Beach. Still unable to provide adequately for his family, he encouraged his children to seek work as well, and as soon as they were old enough, his two sons got jobs in the paper mills that dotted the shores of the Savannah River for miles in either direction. By the end of the decade, when war loomed imminent, even Pilar had found work, this time in a shipyard turning out Liberty-class cargo ships. Her daughters also hired themselves out as domestic help, Rita included, to help the family survive.

Rita's first placement, in the home of a shipping executive named Hiram Purvis lasted almost six years, ending when Purvis moved his family to New York to take a position with an import broker.

It was only a few months after her release from that service, in January 1946, that Rita went to work for an old tart-tongued recluse named Lucille Perry.

Bette found her story interesting but despite her efforts, the evening passed in slow, strained silence. She was thankful for the children, who chattered away about anything and everything: Miss Littleton, church league football for Jimmy, whether or not they could go to the Cherokee Indian Reservation next week. For the best part of the meal, even into Bette's carrot cake dessert, Alex and Rita seemed at great pains to ignore each other. They sat at opposite ends of the table, on opposite sides, with the children in between. Though she expected Alex thought she wasn't aware of it, Bette could sense his profound discomfort in being at the table. He seemed determined to concentrate on his steak, on scraping the very smallest bites out of his potato and finally, on creating and embellishing odd (and to Jimmy, funny) patterns out of the leftovers on his plate.

When there seemed to be nothing more that could be said, and the scraps of food remaining had grown cold and stiff, Bette nodded to the children that they could leave if they wanted to, and began gathering some of the plates together. "Would you like some more cake, Rita? There's plenty left. Maybe some more sherry?"

"No, thank you. Bette, I am quite fine. It was a lovely meal."

"How about some coffee?"

"Please, no, thank you again. I need nothing more. At my age, food must be eaten carefully."

Bette stood up and stacked some plates to be carried into the kitchen. ''Well, then maybe you and Alex would like to be alone for awhile. To talk, I mean. I've got these dishes to do."

Alex scowled at the prospect and quickly volunteered for sink duty. "I can do these, honey. Really. I don't mind. Why don't you show her around the house?"

"I already have, dear. She got the grand tour when she first came in."

"Then, maybe--"

Rita held up her hand. "Please, no importa cuestion, Senora Bette. It doesn't matter that much." She smiled faintly. "I am tired."

"Of course." Bette replied. She gathered up a few knives and forks. "You must be exhausted. Alex, why don't you show her to the guest room? There's an extra pillow in the linen closet, too. And you know where the bathroom is."

"Yes, thank you. I will be fine." She watched as Bette disappeared into the kitchen. Quickly, she stole a glance down the table at Alex. For a moment, their eyes met in a flash of hatred. Alex glowered, looking up from the stain spots on the table cloth. Rita fingered the pendant about her neck; for most of the night, she had kept it hidden inside the black collar. Now, she pulled it out and let the wan candlelight shine on its rusty metallic edges. Seeing it, Alex winced involuntarily and turned away, getting up from his chair. He hung back in the shadows of the corner for a moment, leering savagely at her. She rose slowly and took a deep breath, gripping the pendant more tightly. With a short little thrust of her hand, she extended the curved chunk of iron to the limit of its chain. The movement startled Alex and he bared his teeth suddenly before pushing open the door and vanishing into the living room. Bright light and the sound of a TV voice filtered back through the door.

Rita clutched her pendant and let its coarse surface reassure her. Her shoulders were trembling badly. She knew she had to warn Bette.

She walked over to the kitchen portal and stepped silently in. Bette was already placing dishes into the dishwasher, rubbing them with a towel as she put each one in its rack. Rita gathered up her nerve and walked noisily over to the oven, dropping her purse so that Bette would notice her.

"Hi, Rita," she said, wiping her hands with the dishrag. "Didn't hear you come in. I'll be through in a minute. You want some coffee?"

"No, thank you, Senora Bette. I—" She paused, not knowing how to explain it, not knowing how to tell the woman she was in grave danger, right now, she had to get away while it was still possible, now. "I--there was something I would like to say, Bette. Something important."

Bette was intrigued by her expression and turned the water off. ''What is it? You look so concerned--is it serious?"

"Yes, Bette. Very serious. You must believe what I am about to say."

"Is there something wrong?"

Rita suddenly grabbed her shoulder and gazed nervously into Bette's face. "Your husband--you must believe--'' but she stopped when Bette's face lit up. They were no longer alone.

"There you are, honey. I was going to ask you if we couldn't move your stereo out to the patio and talk out there. It's such a beautiful night out. And we could have that wine Frank and Jeanne gave us on our anniversary last year."

For a long moment, Alex did not reply. He gave no outward sign of even noticing that Bette was standing right in front him, her arms around his waist. Instead, he glared at Rita, then lowered his eyes to where her pendant would have hung had she not put it back inside the black collar.

"Alex?" said Bette. "Did you hear what I said? I think it would be pleasant to sit out on the patio, don't you?"

"Senora, I appreciate your kindness." Rita clutched at her throat, groping for the outline of the pendant. "But I am fatigued. Perhaps, another time."

"Yes," said Alex. "Another time." He stepped aside, to let Rita pass. She left the kitchen and went to the stairs.

Bette followed her.

"You'll let me know if you need anything?"

Rita nodded. "Of course. Thank you, for everything. In the morning...." She turned and went upstairs, ascending the steps slowly, as if deliberately feeling each one before she placed her foot upon it.

"Poor thing." Bette turned to find Alex standing right behind her, scowling. "I should have realized she was about to drop. A good night's sleep will do her wonders." She grabbed Alex by his belt and pulled him back into the kitchen. "Come on, husband, help me finish the dishes."

Bette had decided to put Rita up in the small bedroom around the corner from the main bath and the childrens' bedroom. It was located in a little nook down a short hall and was the only room in that part of the house, except for a large linen closet across the hall. Bette had promised Marcy that when she started school, she could have that room for her own but it still needed a little work to get it ready. When they had moved in, the large sofa bed that had once occupied the family room of their old house in Atlanta had gone in up there and Alex had bought her a brand-new suite of furniture for their new family room, something more in keeping with its dark walnut paneling and heavy molding and mantelpiece.

Aside from the sofa bed and a battered old chest that had lain in their basement for years before being salvaged for repair, the small bedroom was essentially bare. Rita opened the door and shut it behind her, making sure it was locked tight. She fingered the pendant as she moved to switch on the vase-shaped lamp on top of the chest. Its aging bulb cast a dim yellow light on the ceiling and floor.

Carefully, she undressed to her slip and put up her clothes on a pair of coat hangers Bette had provided her, hanging them on the back of the door. In the shadows, they slumped as though dead and Rita hurriedly switched the light off to avoid looking at them. She climbed into bed and slipped beneath the covers, muttering prayers and crossing herself.

The windows were not covered by drapes and it was a simple matter to make out the branches and leaves of the big persimmon in the backyard. They twisted and twirled in tortuous shapes, the leaves occasionally fluttering like trembling hands as a cool night breeze sifted through them. Otherwise, the air was still, unusually so, and Rita lay quietly on her back, staring at the shapes looming through the window. In the thick quiet, she could hear the rhythmic thump of her own heart and the hushed repose of the tree outside eventually dulled her dread of sleep and smoothed the way toward a kind of restful peace.

In that last flickering moment of wakefulness, when her grip on the fragment of the manacle that she had fashioned into a pendant to protect herself, gradually relaxed, she heard the same whispering admonition she had heard on that bitterly cold, gray, blustery night in March 1947, the same hoarse, apprehensive words Lucille had spoken to her then.

We're going to trap the thing tonight, child. We're going to capture the beast for all time.

She took the cup of tea and brought it around to serve their unexpected guest, Daniel. He had shown up an hour before, his rain-slick McIntosh covered with mud, shivering in the wind, while Lucille was finishing the potato soup and ham loaf Rita had made for her. He did not ask to be invited in but instead shoved the young housekeeper aside and stormed into the house. Rita moved to grab his arm and throw him out but Lucille waved her off and beckoned the man to her table, where she offered him the remainder of the steaming soup. He sucked in his breath and spat on the table, a great dollop of saliva landing right in the soup bowl but still, the Senora did not flinch. She rose from her chair and pushed it back, asking the man she called Daniel to sit, to have tea with her while the beast was dormant and he was lucid enough to act with courtesy toward his unwilling host. There was a minute of the blackest loathing between them and, then slowly, almost painfully, the man sat down and shrugged off his coat, which fell dripping wet to the parquet floor.

The Senora motioned for Rita to follow and she went into the kitchen. A pot of tea was still brewing on the burner and she lifted it from the flame and poured a generous amount into a tiny porcelain cup. Before she handed the cup to Rita to serve, however, she opened a cabinet door next to the stove and, from somewhere in the back of the spice rack, she pulled out a clear plastic vial of liquid, which she then proceeded to pour into the tea. It turned the liquid chalky white for a few seconds, until it had been stirred well with the handle of the spoon. The Senora threw that spoon away and gave the cup to Rita, telling her quietly and with obvious apprehension, yet strangely mixed with a gleam of triumph in her eyes, to serve the man and then quickly go to the basement and never mind "Billy" just ignore him, but go as fast as possible to the basement and hide in that cement alcove with the iron door until all is clear. I will join you directly, child, but if I do not appear, then you are not to leave the chamber or even to open that door until twenty-four hours have passed. Wait until "Billy" is quiet and asleep; he will rest in the afternoon. But do not, under any circumstances, open that door, do you understand me Rita Donze Gutierrez?

And so it was that she served the man called Daniel his tea, nervously, with a quick smile and a trembling hand and so fearful and terror-stricken was she that their visitor laughed upon receiving the cup into his hands and took her arm firmly and would not release it even though she cried out you're hurting me please let go and he laughed again and raised the cup to his cold-swollen lips and she finally managed to wrench herself free and it was then that the first swallow was taken and Senora burst from the kitchen horrified that she was still there with him and screamed RUN NOW, LITTLE ONE OR YOU'LL NEVER RUN AGAIN and she fled down the steep stairs into that putrid dank cellar where the "Billy" thing hunkered and snorted like a ghastly nightmare and stumbled on the concrete floor bruising her knees badly but finally making it into that cement vault whereupon she slammed the door shut and screamed and screamed and screamed ....

That night, the foul breath of hell itself blew through the rooms and hallways of 21 Earl's Court.

For the truth was, as Senora explained to her many days later when she was recuperating from head injuries and temporary blindness at the hospital, that they had poisoned the beast, and denied it sanctuary in the feverish body of her lost son Daniel and thus enraged, it gathered the fires of a million years of hatred and tore through the house like the tempestuous squall that it was, wrecking everything in its path in one final paroxysm of violence before succumbing to its nature and fleeing the mortal remains of its earthly home. Not able to penetrate the iron--of which it was deathly afraid, so said Senora—the creature thundered and roared and growled and bellowed until at long last it sensed with its vicious tongue the presence of "Billy", the very thing it had created years before in a single ferocious orgasm of savagery and death. And not content to eliminate the family it had for so long tormented, not yet though destroying the lives of one generation after another, not willing to go back to the cold airless region from which it escaped, the beast had no recourse but to penetrate the vacant mind and soul of "Billy" and there to lurk like an unending mockery of life itself, biding its time until once again, decades later, it could erupt and gain flesh once more, this time never to relinquish it again.

Trap the beast tonight, child. Trap it once and for all.

2.

It was human, she saw. Or at least, had been at one time. Maybe four feet in height, almost as wide around, the creature had no arms, merely scarred stumps of pale, shriveled tissue. The thing did have legs, but they were gnarled, misshapen skeletal bones, blood-encrusted and covered with fiery red pustules and sores.

The worst part was the face. What eyes it had were no more than pinpricks, scabbed over and surrounded with a thick webbing of scar tissue. Even as she watched, the beast gouged at its face, opening a wound which dribbled fluid freely. Its nose was sunken back into the skull and its mouth was sealed partly shut with gray, fungus-like skin growths and more scar tissue.

The whole effect was that of a decaying skeleton, or some kind of hideous caricature of a large human fetus. Blood veins stood out clearly at or near its skin, especially around the tiny eyes. Many of them were burst, giving its face a cruel blotchy look. Its skin was otherwise a waxy yellow, where it was visible through the gray crusty mold at all and its legs were smeared with foul-smelling dung.

She couldn't bring herself to look at the thing for more than a few seconds at a time. Her mind railed from the thought that it might be human.

Yet it had been. Once. And now it toyed with her for a few minutes, giggling to itself as its face contorted into a crude parody of "Billy". Just to remind her....

It was swollen with blood and hunger and snickered greedily as it slinked toward the bed. In the ashen light streaming in through the window, she could see the sores on its face had opened up and were draining. She was petrified and willed her legs to move, to get up and get away now before it comes any closer, but they wouldn't obey. She was caught, trapped under the blanket, and she squirmed as the first whiff of that repulsive, loathsome breath struck her.

The beast came at her in a mindless rage, throwing back the blankets, grappling her about the neck, clawing at the pendant, throttling her until everything dimmed and she felt her hands tingling from lack of blood. She was hoisted up like a rag doll and shaken senseless, but she managed to rip the pendant off and drape it over the head of the beast. The room spun around and her head struck the edge of the chest again and again. Something cracked and gave way. She didn't know if she was screaming or not. She was numb, blind, helpless oh Senora I have failed miserably I cannot fight this thing and then she was freezing cold and falling falling falling....

She fell a very long time.

3.

Bette Perry awakened with a violent start, not sure why. It was dark and she had been sleeping soundly and now she was wide awake, her nerves on edge, her pulse racing, blood roaring in her ears. She twisted around under the sheets to see what time it was. The orange face of the clock-radio read 3:32.

Jesus Christ.

She rubbed her temples, feeling the first painful throbs of an incipient headache. She rose up on her elbows, expecting to hear something, yet the house was deathly quiet and she slowly sank back against the pillow, telling herself she had been dreaming, it's only a nightmare, baby, now go back to sleep. But she couldn't and in the next instant, she knew why.

Thump--THUMP!

What the hell was that? She sat up wide-eyed and threw back the covers. The cool air of the bedroom tickled the hairs on the back of her neck and she shivered. She groped for her husband's arm, where it had been just a minute ago, she had felt it, hadn't she? wedged in between her breasts when she had finally fallen asleep. But it wasn't there and neither was Alex. She squinted in the dark, letting her eyes rove the room. The open double doors of the closet. The door to the bathroom. The highboy they had bought at a furniture closeout in Winston-Salem. The vanity and mirror. Alex wasn't there.

The thick hush was shattered at that moment by a terrified shriek from down the hall. Marcy!

She shot out of bed and ran to the hall door, yanking it open. Down the hall she went, knocking from the wall a black Indian totem-pole head they had gotten a few years ago. It thumped onto the carpet, face up and grinning, but by that time, Bette had reached her screaming daughter just outside the small guestroom where they had put up Miss Donze for the night, and scooped her up into her arms.

The child was shaking and crying, wailing at something inside the room. Bette shushed her and comforted her, stroking the wet black hair from her eyes but still the child cried and buried her head against Bette's shoulders. She stepped into the room to see what was going on. Poor thing's had a bad dream—I'll have to apologize to....

Rita.

There was a pile of things next to the bed, which was badly disheveled. A dull red swath stained the sheets that covered it. Bette flipped on the light, putting Marcy down beside her and approached the pile. She stopped short when she realized what it was.

Oh, God, my God, no....

Marcy shrieked again and fled the room. The sound of someone stumbling down the stairs reached the little guestroom but Bette didn't move. She stood rooted to the spot, fighting back the nausea, the faintness and finally grabbed the edge of the chest to keep from falling. It was slick with blood and she jerked her hand away immediately.

The badly mauled body of Rita Donze Gutierrez lay twisted and deformed, entwined with sheets still damp red from whatever had attacked her. She lay engulfed in the sheets at a crazy angle, her feet--what was left of them--slung over the top of the bed, her back arched, apparently broken, down the side and her head stuffed in a wad of cloth ripped from the pillowcases under the bed. That was the worst part. As Bette swayed, trying to focus on the carnage and at the same time tell herself it wasn't really there, it just couldn't be, dammit! she saw that the head was only barely attached to the body at all, clinging by a few ropy ligaments in the neck that hadn't been cleanly severed. At the top of the clavicle, it looked as though some vicious animal had chewed away the skin and muscle tissue, right down to the gristle and a black froth still bubbled about the ragged edges of her windpipe. Only the bedsheets, still tucked in on the other side of the bed, kept the body from collapsing to the floor.

A wave of queasiness washed over her and Bette was momentarily thankful for the gust of fresh air blowing in from the window. From the debris strewn all about the room, the wind must have gusted pretty strongly before she got there; there were leaves, pine cones and needles and pieces of bark everywhere, in addition to the mess of the bedsheets and shards of glass from the overhead light. She wondered if a branch of the persimmon tree had crashed into the window, for the glass had shattered and fallen all over the floor and bed. Outside, the limbs of the old tree were bent over in a stiff wind.

She heard the sound of someone crunching on the glass behind her and turned around.

`'Jimmy, stay where you are! Don't come in here."

Jimmy stood in his blue pajama bottoms at the door, peering in. His nose wrinkled at the sight.

"Mom, what's going on? What happened--is she--is she...?"

"Yes, now listen to me, Jimbo. Listen real good. I want you to go downstairs and look after your sister. You know the Costas' number, don't you?"

He nodded, staring in astonishment at the corpse. "Sure."

"Okay, good. Call then now and tell them we've had an emergency. Tell Dr. Costa to come over right away. You can do that, can't you?" He nodded again. "Good boy." She fidgeted with her hands, not knowing what to tell him next.

"Mama, is she dead...did that lady get hurt or somethin'?"

"Jimmy, honey, just do what I say, okay? Everything's gonna be fine but you got to go see to your sister. Right now." As he was backing out the door, still rubbing the sleep and tears from his eyes, shocked at his own mother's terrified face, she added. "And don't you come up here again, until Dr. Costa gets here. You got that?"

He started crying and rubbed the back of his hand over his wet cheeks, then turned and ran down the hall, choking with fright and confusion. She heard him scampering down the stairs and prayed to God he wouldn't fall.

It was then that she realized she had been hearing something else too. A faint squeaking, coming in through the window from the backyard. It sounded awfully familiar. She ran over to see, glass and bark crumbling under her bedroom slippers. She peered out into the night.

There, down on the patio, something. Someone. My God. It's Alex. He was lying, face down, on the rusty, beat-up old glider they had almost thrown out last year. He seemed unconscious, maybe asleep, or even--

Bette never let the thought surface. She raced out of the room and down the stairs, three at a time, nearly falling at the bottom on the little rug in the foyer. She brushed aside her children who had come running and dashed into the kitchen, heading for the back door in the pantry. She knocked over a pile of old newspapers beside the door and flung it open. Out onto the patio, to the glider, to her husband.

"Alex! Alex, are you all right?" She dropped to her knees on the hard brick and shook her husband vigorously. "Alex, Alex wake up! Come on, honey, wake up!"

He groaned and muttered something under his breath, fighting her a little. She shook him again, this time harder, pulling on his arm to make him turn over. Finally, he grunted and rolled over on his side, eyes still shut, but grumbling something she couldn't quite make out. She saw his face and neck and quickly let go, shrinking back. Her scalp prickled at the sight.

He looked like he had been burned. His face was flushed red and blistered on his lips and nose, although not badly. His neck and shoulders and part of his upper arms had been scalded and as she gently touched the inflamed spots, he winced visibly and his eyes fluttered open. He shook his head groggily and mumbled.

"Bet--Bette—"

"It's me, honey...what's happened to you? What are you doing out here?" She cupped her hand carefully under the side of his head and helped him sit up, a bit unsteadily. He was clad only in old jeans and as he sat back against the glider, he sucked in his breath painfully and leaned forward. "Mmm, that hurts." He shook his head and tenderly touched his cheeks with his fingers.

There was a commotion inside the house and Bette heard the welcome sound of friendly voices at the pantry door. In seconds, Frank Costa was at her side, Jeanne right behind him. They were followed by Eugene and Evelyn Tackaberry, from across the street. Everyone bent down to get a look at Alex's face.

"D'ya stick your head in that grille, son?" asked Eugene. He clucked sympathetically and rubbed a spot off his glasses to see better. Someone had turned on the patio lights and, in the glare, the red of the burned spots stood out starkly. "You look almost well done to me."

Alex grimaced as Frank applied a cold compress to a place on his cheek. "How's that feel?" he asked.

"Better. Lots better." He took the compress and held it against the side of his face.

"What's going on over here, Bette?" asked Evelyn. She was a small, portly woman with bristly dark brown hair that made her look like a rooster. "We could hear screaming all the way over to our house."

"Us too," said Jeanne. She put her arms around Bette's trembling shoulders. "You going to be okay?"

She shook her head and the full import of what had happened began to sink in. Her voice was thick as she wrestled with tears. "God, I don't know. I just don't know anymore." She looked up suddenly and cried. "Where are my children?" She started to get up but Jeanne held her tightly. "My children...I've got to--"

"They're all right, honey, don't worry. They're right inside the door, perfectly all right." She let Bette lean against her shoulders for a moment and patted her gently on the back.

`'Oh, Jeanne," she said, sobbing. ''Jeanne...it's horrible. She's dead...murdered I...I'm scared. What's happening to me?" She clung to Jeanne and cried and for a brief moment. Jeanne almost joined her. She felt a hot stinging in her throat and tried to swallow it down. It had only been a few days since she had been comforted the same way, and by Bette.

"What do you mean, murder?" asked Eugene.

Bette took a deep breath and wiped her eyes. Her cheeks glistened in the patio light. ''We had a guest. Rita Donze. She was Alex's grandmother's housekeeper...." She couldn't go on and broke down again, burying herself in Jeanne's arms once more. "She's been murdered! Oh, God, Jeanne, it's awful and I don't ever want to see it again!"

"It's all right," soothed Jeanne. "Come on, why don't you sit down?"

Eugene Tackaberry rubbed the white stubble on his chin and sucked awhile on his lower lip. ''If 'n you're saying someone's been killed, I suppose I oughta go and call the police. I expect Mr. Mosley'll find that right interesting." He waited for an encouraging nod from his wife and walked back up to the brick steps, where Jimmy and Marcy huddled together, eyeing the whole affair. They parted to let Mr. Tackaberry go in and then resumed their vigil in the doorway, not sure what they should feel or do.

"You're not too bad," Frank said at last, standing up and flexing his leg to get the kinks out. "I've got some cream at the office that'll help a lot, if you want it."

Alex nodded. "Yeah. I need something. My whole face feels like it's on fire." He touched his nose tenderly and made a face.

`'You mind telling me what on earth happened?"

Alex sighed. "Damned if I know. I was—"

But he stopped when a loud screech echoed across the backyard. Everyone looked up. All along the row of pines and oaks and poplars that formed a natural fence at the back end of the Perry property, the sound of heavy wings beating could be heard. The tops of the trees swayed in a strong gust of wind, a warm, fetid, swamp-smelling wind and the uppermost branches seemed alive with the steady fluttering of something angry and agitated.

Just above the tree line, where a second before, the soft shimmer of stars had been visible, there now gathered a vast, shapeless black cloud. Formless and beating violently, it stirred the limbs of the trees into a furious rustling and skimmed across the very top, ducking in and out of view, until at last, it pulled itself together and rose into the night sky, blotting out all light. The trees trembled and the warm breeze was quickly replaced by a chilling blast of air, swooping down from the direction of the cloud.

The thing rose higher in the sky, so that it was now completely clear of the trees and then slowly, patiently, collected itself into a majestic revolving disk. It spun like a small tornado for a few minutes, throbbing as if alive. Then, suddenly, as quickly as it had formed, the thing flung itself apart and scattered among the stars. Soon, it had faded to nothing.

"What on earth was that?" asked Jeanne. She realized her voice was a whisper.

Evelyn Tackaberry shook her head. "A flock of crows, most likely. Couldn't be anything else but that."

Bette watched the mass until she was sure it was gone. She sat next to her husband on the glider. "Alex?"

"What."

"Where did you get that thing?"

Alex looked down. He was wearing Rita Donze's iron pendant.
PART TWO: SEPTEMBER 1975

Chapter 16

1.

Frank Costa maintained a clinic in a small brick professional building he had helped to build next to Sneaky Sam's Restaurant on Branch Road. It was just a few blocks off Scotland Avenue south, not far from Red Beavers' station and the center of town. In his honest, objective opinion, his own clinic was far better equipped and located, not to mention better furnished, than anything Cyrus Haley could offer. All of which counted for very little in the traditional minds of most Scotland Lakers, who still visited Dr. Haley in greater numbers.

So it was that Frank Costa was secretly pleased that Chief Mosley had agreed to move the badly mauled body of Rita Donze to his clinic because it was closer and because Mosley didn't have much stomach for the sound of the body moving about in its bag at every bump in the road. It was shortly after six in the morning when Mosley pulled his police cruiser around to the back.

He and Frank Costa and Alex Perry helped carry the bag into the examining room.

Frank unzipped the plastic trash bag and, with effort and a lot of grimacing help from the Chief, placed the remains of Rita Donze on the table. With some shears, he cut the last scraps of clothing from the corpse and stored the pieces in a snail sack he got from the supply room.

He gathered together the tools he needed for the post-mortem: scalpel, post-mortem and cartilage knives, intestine scissors, rib shears, forceps, probes, mallet and chisels, a blade saw and electric bone saw, a scale, specimen jars, needle and sutures, sterilizer, gloves. He placed them all neatly on a small tray and motioned for Mosley to bring down the fluorescent light, to erase the shadows on the body's chest. Mosley grunted and complied. He looked sick as Frank readied the skin for the first incision and backed off to a corner to watch,

"You ever witnessed an autopsy?" Frank asked. Only Alex answered.

"Never."

"It's one of the most interesting parts of a med student's education." He looked up at his friend and smiled. "I was about that same shade of green at my first one, too. Hand me that bowl over there."

Frank rinsed the blood-soaked hair first and drained the sediments into a small basin. He poured this into a flask and labelled it, then beginning with the scalp, he started a careful scrutiny of all parts of the body's surface, recording every observation as he went along.

When he was finished with the exterior examination, Frank picked out a post-mortem knife and gripped it firmly with his right hand. With his left hand on the body's jaw, he made a Y-shaped incision from throat to groin, and from each armpit to the sternum. The knife moved easily enough through the shriveled skin, although rigor still held the body in its rigid vise, but the sound of flesh being coolly sliced made Alex's stomach turn and he screwed up his face and looked away.

Once the incision was made, Frank turned back the resulting flaps and, with the bone saw, quickly removed the sternum, to lay bare the trunk organs and the intestinal tract. He began a careful inspection of the battered, blood-swollen lungs.

The entire post-mortem lasted little over an hour and in that time, Alex and Chief Mosley watched Frank read the entrails of the corpse as efficiently and dispassionately as if it were an open book.

The intestinal tract was removed by stripping the bowel of all its attachments and the badly kinked, splotchy red tube gone over inch by inch for signs of punctures or hemorrhaging. When he was through with that, Frank placed it into a large jar, which he gave to Alex to put over on the shelf and added a few more words to his tape-recorded observations.

It was time for the head to be examined and here, Mosley could simply watch no longer. With a thick mutter, he excused himself and stepped out of the room, heading for the front door, which he found to his great dismay, still locked. He rattled the door handle anxiously for a few seconds, then gave up and went looking for a water fountain. He found one down the hall from the examining room and he spent five minutes in front of it, splashing cold water over his face.

Alex took a seat next to the door and studied the tile patterns in the floor. Under the bright white cone of light over the table, Frank was still hard at work, cutting open the skull by making an incision across the vertex of the scalp with the saw. The shrill whir of the motor sent shivers down his back.

Frank removed the skull top and placed it on the table next to the head, after satisfying himself as to the cause of the lesions and cavitation damage on its surface. He peered in with a small flashlight, studying the brain in situ for a few minutes, then freed the organ from its attaching vessels and removed it.

"That's it," he muttered to himself as he looked the gray pulpy mass over. "See?'' He held it out for Alex to look at but Alex made no move to get up from his seat. "Skull contusions on the outside, all kinds of lacerations really, with the bone edges crushed, hairs driven into the wounds, strands of tissue bridging the cut. And bad lesions on the surface of the brain itself, hemorrhaging, deep gashes, extensive tissue damage." He took a deep breath, put the brain down in a white pan and proceeded to extract the spinal cord, sawing through the vertebrae in front and then pulling the cord out with a pair of forceps.

He had finished his initial dissection survey of the body and decided to go back to each of the major organs and give it another, closer look. He examined the external and cut surfaces of everything he had extracted, checking arteries, lymphatics, fascial and fibrous tissue, everything. When he had accomplished this, he picked up the microphone and added a few closing words to the post-mortem analysis.

"Death seems to have been directly caused by cerebral hemorrhaging. There are severe bruises and lacerations to the scalp, as well as some intracranial hemorrhaging. Some evidence of asphyxiation in the lungs--the pleurae show bruised spots and there is the classic interstitial emphysema beneath the surface lobules. But I doubt that was the ultimate cause of death.'' He turned off the tape recorder and put the mike down. Alex Perry stared blankly at him from the chair. "You all right, Alex?"

A barely perceptible nod was his reply.

"Let me get the body back together and we'll go have a drink in my office. Why don't you keep the Chief company while I stitch her back up again?"

"Okay." He got up and left quietly.

Half an hour later, Frank was through. He covered the body with a sheet and went looking for the others. They were in the outer lobby, each lost in his own shell of thought.

"She'll have to be embalmed pretty soon." Frank told them. "otherwise, decay will set in. Rigor mortis has already stopped. Ordinarily, a body would keep for a day if it hadn't been opened, but after an autopsy .... " He shrugged.

"Guess we ought to get it over to Beeson's then," Mosley said, getting up. He stretched and yawned. "You find out what you needed to know?"

Frank nodded. "Hemorrhaging was the cause of death. She was pretty badly beat up. It almost looks like a bomb blast."

"What about foreign substances? Hair follicles, bits of clothing, that sort of thing?"

"Right here." He gave Mosley a small envelope. "There's a sample of everything alien to the body in there. There's no question it was murder, Chief. Her head struck something heavy and sharp repeatedly."

"Not to mention being nearly decapitated," Mosley said drily. "Well, thanks for getting up at the crack of dawn, Frank."

"I was there anyway. Might as well do the autopsy while I was at it." He touched Alex on the shoulder. "You're sure you're all right, boy?"

Alex looked up and managed a weak smile. "Yeah. I'll live." He stood up, rubbing the inflamed patches on his arms tenderly. "If you want to know the truth, I feel pretty good, considering what time it is. This morning's the first time I haven't felt tired or weighed down in a long time." He fingered the pendant around his neck.

"If you want my opinion, that thing doesn't do a bit of good for your looks." said Frank. Alex promptly let the pendant go and then tucked it inside his shirt. "Anyway, why don't you let me put some salve on those arms? It'll only take a minute and it'll make them feel a lot better."

Alex agreed and Frank rubbed cream on the red patches until they glistened. "That ought to do it," he said, when he was through. He stuck the tube into his coat pocket.

"Does this lady have any next of kin we can notify?" Mosley asked. He folded the envelope and took out his car keys.

"As far as I know, only one." said Alex. "She had parents, but I believe they're deceased. Her brother and sisters have scattered around the country. She does have an uncle, though. Somewhere in Savannah. It seems to me he runs some kind of small shipping outfit or something. I can probably get you his address from my grandmother's things."

"Do that." Mosley pulled out a memo pad and wrote something down on it. Frank led them back down the hall to the back exit. "There is one other thing.'' They stopped in the doorway, as the first damp smells of the morning drifted down from the wooded knoll in back of the parking lot. "Alex, you were found outside your house after your wife testified that she heard noises coming from that bedroom. Was there anything you saw, anything you could tell me about what went on in that room? Something you might have seen from the patio?"

Alex stared off into the woods, purging his lips. He thought for awhile, but finally shook his head. "Nope. Nothing. I don't even know how I got outside, Chief. I can't remember."

Mosley frowned and sucked on his pencil. "That's what worries me. You can't completely account for yourself."

"Now, Chief," said Frank. "Surely, you--"

"I don't think anything at the moment, men. But I don't have much to go on, do I? Until I get some more evidence, maybe from having these analyzed, I can't afford to ignore any possibility." He tucked the envelope into a shirt pocket and walked out the door to his car. High in the trees that overlooked the little building, the raucous screeching of hundreds of starlings grew louder.

2.

Alex said good-bye to Frank and left with Mosley. The Chief promised to drop him off back at his house before going on to the station, where he would have to fill out yet another report on a strange and inexplicable death in the Lake. He fired up the engine and revved it angrily for a moment, thinking this had gone quite far enough. Three murders inside of a week and scarcely a clue to hang a hat on. He backed the cruiser around sharply and floored it. The car spun on some gravel and shot around the corner of the building and out the drive to Branch Road, where it bumped and skidded hitting the asphalt. Mosley hauled the wheel around and sped off toward Scotland Lake.

Goddammit, I'll stop this foolishness if it's the last thing I ever do.

They had to wait at the light for a huge yellow Mayflower van to lumber through the intersection. Mosley drummed his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently.

"You're sure you don't remember a thing after you went to bed?" he asked Alex.

"Chief, I'd have told you in a second if I had. You know that. I was dead tired after driving down to Atlanta and back yesterday. After dinner, I went right to bed. That's the last thing I remember. Next thing I knew, I was out on the glider, shivering cold, with Bette trying to wake me up." He looked at the blisters on his arms. "And I had these..."

Mosley ran the light after the van had gone by and headed into town. ''Well, it doesn't make much sense to me." He wanted to trust the man--God alone knew how much he did, but there were so many questions. He tapped his horn as the Rev. Leo Stearns drove by in his Pontiac, heading for the High Haven Baptist Church, to practice his sermon for the morning service.

"Think you might have fallen and knocked yourself out?"

Alex shrugged. "It's possible. I don't know. I wish I could help you, Chief.''

Mosley pulled in at the light by the Sirloin Saddle. The sidewalks were deserted around the square at this early hour--the sun had barely risen--but after awhile, there would be knots of people, families, friends, making their way to church. In the cool morning stillness, a wispy fog clung to the street, backlit by the dim streetlights. The sun would be pale and wan this morning, streaming down through thickening layers of clouds.

Going to be a storm, Mosley thought to himself. Pretty soon, too, from the looks of things.

"Tell me something, Alex." He drove them through the square and on down to Crestline Drive, where they turned right and then again onto Elder Lane.

''What's that?"

Mosley stopped the car beside their mailbox, a big wooden thing with a flower trellis on either side. "How well did you and this Miss Donze get along? You knew her a good many years, didn't you?"

"Since I was a child." Alex gently rubbed the stubble on his chin. "Honestly, I didn't know her that well, though. I only visited my grandmother a few times." He lay his head back on the seat and shut his eyes. "I guess I usually saw her as someone to be obeyed. She pretty much ran that house, maybe Grandmother too, for all I know."

"You had no grudges against her? No arguments or anything?"

Alex shook his head. "She was part of the house, as far as I was concerned. Oh, you know, she could be stern on a little boy who went exploring where he shouldn't have. That I remember. She was extremely loyal to Grandmother, protective of her, that sort of thing. But I never had cause to dislike her. In fact, she always seemed kind of mysterious to me."

"In what way?"

"It's hard to explain, exactly. When I was little, I sometimes had the feeling she was the cause of Grandmother's madness--my Grandmother was diagnosed as psychotic at one time-- that somehow, she was able to exert some kind of influence and that she had all kinds of little gremlins scurrying about in the walls of the house to help her torment the woman. Why I thought that I don't know. I probably saw it in a horror movie."

Mosley sighed and decided to get out of the car to stretch. He kicked at a pine cone that lay alongside the gutter. "I'm going to have to open another investigation, you understand. There'll be more questions."

Alex got out too and plucked the Sunday paper from the mailbox. The headlines read ISRAEL TO GIVE UP PART OF SINAI. He folded it under his arm and they walked up to the front porch. "I know, Chief. You got your job to do."

"Yeah," said Mosley. This time, I got to. "I'd appreciate it a whole lot if you'd keep yourself available. In case something more turns up."

They climbed the steps and looked out at the slate-gray sky, where black stratus clouds were gathering. From somewhere in the distance, a low growl of thunder was heard, rolling across the tops of the hills. The breeze swirled pine cones and leaves in Alex's front yard, a tiny wind devil that skittered from one end of the yard to the other and back. The saplings he had planted in April in the side yard bowed over, to the ground and one of them snapped off, hurtling through the air until it clattered against the garage door. Just as suddenly, the wind died out, giving way to another roll of thunder. Warm, damp storm air settled over the town.

"I understand. Chief." Alex gestured to another wind-devil in the Palmers' front yard next door. "Looks like we're going to have a good one, doesn't it? You got any tomatoes left on your vines?"

"Nope. I been feeding every damn bird and squirrel that comes along." He sniffed the air and squinted up at the sky. "I guess the farmers need it. June'll be wanting me home pretty soon. She doesn't much like violent thunderstorms."

"Thanks for dropping me off, Dick." He paused, with his hand on the door knob, already half-turned. "Could I ask you a question?"

"Why not?"

He cocked his head and let the door knob go. "What the hell is going on around here? I've heard all kinds of things about murderers and secret hunt clubs and old Indian spells and curses and spooked bears. Do these people really believe all that nonsense?"

Mosley sort of smiled and scuffed at a loose plank on the porch to hide it. "I s'pose so. It makes about as much sense as any other explanation. Superstitions die hard."

"What do you think?"

Mosley looked up. The smile was gone. "You really want to know?''

"I asked, didn't I?"

"I think there may be a psychopath loose in these mountains. I heard something yesterday, when I stopped at Smitty's for lunch. Asa Blalock told me about it. Seems like his boy Ted was out hunting deer and he came across this dog that had been killed, probably by an arrow of some type. Cute little black Pekingese, he said. Over by Kettle Creek, the other side of the lake. I took a look at it and saw the tag on its collar. It was that Costa girl's dog, name of Magoo. Someone killed it out there in the woods."

"What makes you think it's a psychopath?"

Mosley stared out at the yard. "I feel it."

''Oh, come now, Chief, you sound just like Louis Beems or some of the other people around here."

"Alex, listen to me. You ever hear of what they call the Blood Years?"

"I've heard stories."

''Do you believe them?"

He remembered what Ray Stocker had told him about the Halloran camper. ''Some of them."

Mosley swallowed hard to get the knot out of his throat. "It's all true, every word of it."

''And you think it's happening again."

The Chief nodded. He folded his arms and spat into the hibiscus bushes. "I do."

"Who's responsible? You must have an idea. Is it the same person, or persons?"

Mosley shrugged. "Maybe," he said. He laughed at the lie and stuck his hands in his pockets, mainly to keep them from feeling so sticky. They always got that way when the subject came up. Pete Porter's face, that mangled death-grimace .... "But I ain't got no proof."

Alex frowned. "So what are you going to do then?"

"Well, keep looking, I guess. Hoping. Maybe, he'll screw up and I'll catch him." Maybe the moon's made out of green cheese too. "But I could use your help."

"My help? How?"

"To keep things calm. You're new, like the Costas. You haven't been spinning webs around here for years like the rest of us. You can do me a favor by doing just what you're doing right now, being skeptical. I doubt it'll have much effect on people, not when they got their minds made up, but it's worth a try. People don't stampede quite as easily when they're made to think a minute. That's what I want you to do."

''Why don't people move if they're so scared? Why don't they just pack up and leave?"

Mosley snorted. "I used to ask that same question. Couldn't understand it myself, until it was explained to me one day. Sam Burdette said it: people around here aren't really scared at all. They like to get the frights; they're always doing something or other to each other, something gruesome and horrible they can talk about and scare their kids with for years afterward. It's a game to them—that's my opinion. It's what makes their miserable lives meaningful. They prey on each other's fears and phobias night and day. I've seen it at work. You've seen them over to the Town Pantry, the way they talk to each other, telling stories and shaking their heads and grinning at the gory details. They love it, they honestly do. Did you ever wonder why TRUE DETECTIVE and junk like that sells so well at your store? It's what these people live on, it's what they do, hell, it's what they are. They get no joy out of life unless they can hurt someone and they're so damned good at it, so refined and subtle and sporting about it, they don't realize what it's doing to them. All this you see around you, the nice houses with their pretty lawns, the stores and restaurants, the tourist traps, the football practices and games, the azalea gardens in the square, all of it's nothing more than a coat of polish on a dried out, rotten piece of furniture. They spruce up for the tourists but underneath, they're stalking and hunting and scheming and conniving and killing and feeding on each other, and they love it. It's a feud they can't quit because if they ever do, they'll shrivel up and blow away. Scotland Lake died a long time ago, Alex. It ain't a town anymore. The people died with it, too, and somewhere between then and now, they were replaced by a group of beasts from 1 million B.C. That's who you see on the streets today--a pack of animals that play at being human. And I really don't think they'll be completely satisfied until they drive out every last vestige of anything even remotely civilized. Shit, if this place is still around twenty years from now, we could come back and probably see people with loincloths of deer hide and wooden clubs. That's what I really think, sometimes."

Alex felt sorry for the man. He had to be under a lot of strain. He was frustrated and bitter and needed someone to unload on. He squeezed Mosley's shoulder sympathetically.

"I think I know what you.re saying, Chief. I'll be glad to help you anyway I can. But you and me are beat practically to death and we're both talking nonsense. Why don't you go get some sleep and we'll talk about this later?"

The Chief muttered and rubbed his eyes. "I guess you're right. I ought to go home. June already swears I got some woman down at the station I'm seeing. Maybe a real hot shower...."

"Now you're talking.'' Alex watched as he trudged down the walkway to his car. He got in and started up, backing into their driveway to turn around. Then he drove off back to town.

The heavy thump of distant thunder reverberated off the hills around Scotland Lake and a strong gust of wind came whistling down Elder Lane from the northwest, knocking over garbage cans and tricycles and even Mr. Tackaberry's woodpile, which he kept under a plastic sheet next to the apple tree in his side yard. It scooped up leaves and dirt and pine needles and flung them at the front porch where Alex was standing. Instinctively, he covered his face.

Going to be a doozy of a storm today. He unlocked the door and hurried inside.

3.

The River Princess chugged diligently up the Savannah River as its 500-horsepower diesel engine labored against the strong current. Captain Rodrigo Donze Gutierrez checked his aviator's watch and saw that 12:00 noon was still an hour away. He had plenty of time to put her into dock across River Street from the ticket office and give her a good once-over before grabbing a chill dog at the counter and sacking out for a few minutes. It was going to be a sweltering Sunday afternoon on the river and the thought of the two-and-a- half hour cruise he had to pilot made him tired already. He told himself for the tenth time this week that he ought not be so tight-fisted and go ahead and hire another pilot for weekend duty.

The River Princess nudged against the pilings and Donze revved the engine to drive her against the dock so she could be secured. Below decks, all hands were making her fast to the mooring cleats. The loud scraping of the gangplank being hauled into place followed. Donze shut down the engine and locked it, then gathered up his log book and wrote down fuel and oil levels and a few other items on the maintenance charts. She was drinking oil again; her next major overhaul was due in a few months but Donze made a notation to move it up a month.

"Captain Donze!" A voice drifted in through the cabin window. "Captain Donze!"

He looked out. A deck hand, Gilliam, was waving at him from the edge of the wharf, a scrap of paper in his hand.

"What is it?"

"Captain Donze, you have a phone call. In the office. Long distance."

His eyebrows curled. Long distance? "In a minute," he called out. He left the pilot house, careful to lock the door, and climbed down the stairs to the lower level. Across the gangplank, up the wharf ladder and onto the blackened cobblestones of River Street. He waited for a stream of cars to pass, then trotted over to the ticket office, sandwiched in between a novelty shop called the Cotton Bale and a small arts and crafts shop. The cold of the air-conditioned room struck his face like a slap.

He went over to the ticket desk, behind its glass shield, and picked up the phone. "Rodrigo Donze." As he listened to the speaker, he gradually moved around the desk and finally, after several minutes, sank slowly into the torn green leather chair behind it.

There was a tiny snack bar at the front of the room and the black lady behind it, whose name was Wilma, watched her boss from over the top of a Modern Romance magazine as he listened solemnly to the caller. She had worked for Captain Donze for six years, selling tickets, chili dogs and sodas, answering phones, even polishing the brass fittings of the River Princess' pilot house, along with her sister ships Alicia and Samantha.

She could read the Cap's leathery face better than she could read her own magazine and she knew that whatever the caller was saying, it couldn't be good.

"When did it happen?" he replied. Donze stubbed out a cigarette and lit another, fishing out the last beer he had in stock in the little fridge under the desk. He tore off the pop-top. "Mm-hmmm. That's right. Mr. Mosley. I was her uncle. No, no...well, perhaps. I'd have to look. No, not today—I have to work today." He slurped some beer and then rubbed a thick index finger across his badly stained teeth, wiping the scum on his dirty T-shirt. "Maybe in a few days. Yes, I would appreciate that. Yeah, I'll pick it up. Not until midweek, though. Will it keep that long? Right. Bueno. Yes, very unfortunate. Yes, thank you." He put the receiver back in its cradle thoughtfully and finished the beer in one deep gulp, shaking his head when he was through.

Wilma had fixed a BLT and Seven-Up for one customer, who then sauntered over and bought four tickets for the afternoon cruise. Total of fifteen dollars plus tax. Donze dug into his own pockets to make the change and the young bearded man walked out again. Wilma didn't pick up her magazine.

"What was that all about, Cap?"

Donze muttered something she didn't hear: My old nemesis. Then, he replied. "My niece. She was killed, on this trip she was taking to the mountains. I have to go and get the body next week."

Wilma screwed up her face into a mask of pain. "That's terrible, Cap. How did it happen? Were you close?"

"Not close. Apparently, she was murdered. Some crazo, the police man said." He shrugged. "What can you do?"

Wilma clucked sympathetically. "If you ask me, it's this recession thing. Who's got money? She was plucked; that's the way it is on the street now. Fat tourists mean daily meals, if you know what I mean. She carrying a lot of bread on her?"

"I don't know."

Wilma retrieved her magazine and sat down on the stool again. "Hell of a thing, ain't it, Cap?"

Donze nodded. Hell of a thing. He coughed harshly for a minute and put out the cigarette. The desk was a mess of bills and invoices and statements but he paid little attention to them. They blurred together but instead of sweeping them off into one drawer as he usually did, he ignored them and unlocked the file drawer at the bottom and pulled it out. He had almost forgotten.

There among the stacks of log books he had kept for every single year he had spent in the boat business, from those miserable days as a shrimper to the sixteen years he had spent as a harbor pilot in Port-au-Prince and Jacksonville, there among the carefully charted outline of his entire working life, was a small satchel Rita had asked him to keep for her while she searched for a new place to stay. He reached in and pulled it out, shutting the drawer carefully but not locking it. He slipped the drawstring and poured the contents onto his desk. Among them was a small diary, of white leather soiled with age. He opened it up and began to read.
Chapter 17

1.

Frank "Ned" Runyon had lived at the top of the twisting dirt lane that ran off from Branch Road and up the dense piney slopes of Hiker's Cap to a little ledge facing out over a green canyon ever since he was old enough to shoot. He had inherited the place--wood frame house, barn, chicken coop and three and a half acres--from his daddy Franklin Sr. when Teddy Roosevelt was still President. And in all those years since, he thought he had seen just about everything these old mountains had to show a man. He had never known until now just how wrong he could be.

It was a blustery Monday evening. Labor Day 1975, and Runyon whistled softly as he read off the facts of the weather from the instruments he had hung up on the side of the house next to the climbing vines. He had been an observer for the Weather Service for something going on three decades now—he'd got started at it back during the War--and he couldn't ever remember seeing his instruments do things like this. Propping the clipboard up on his knee, he shined the flashlight on the barometer face again and checked the reading one more time.

Twenty-seven point three inches. He shook his head in disbelief and looked up at the black scud, fringed orange from sunset, boiling overhead.

He'd felt this one coming on from the second he had woken up this morning.

Runyon completed the six o'clock check of his barometer, thermometer. wind gauge and hygrometer. He wrote it all down and turned the flashlight off. The first heavy drops of rain were beginning to pelt down and off through the trees at the end of the dirt drive, the sky was a dismal gray, laden with water just waiting to be dropped on his corn and tomatoes. He fiddled with his homemade instruments a bit longer, then hurried back into the house. The boys at the Weather Service would never believe this.

The storm finally broke over Scotland Lake as Ned Runyon was sitting at his shortwave radio set, transmitting the figures to Charlotte. He had to repeat practically everything he said three times the static was so bad. He could feel and hear the house creaking as one gust after another rattled the framework and whistled through cracks and dried-out joints in the wood. The din of the rain drumming on the roof was enough to raise his poor dead wife Cora and just to give himself something to do, Runyon went over to the fireplace and stoked up the flames until they were good and hot, snapping and popping loud enough to stop the sound of that rain coming down. He poured himself a cup of cider and went over to the front window, where he parted the curtains and peered out at the squall.

Everything was in the air. The wind raged across the face of the mountain at gale speeds, thrashing trees and grain silos and water towers and windmills with equal ferocity. A hailstorm of debris blew from one end of the yard to another; uprooted corn stalks, the flower trellis he had put up last month, the climbing vines whipping through the air like snakes. a wheel-barrow full of dirt that the wind had somehow sucked out from under the eaves of the tool shed, a plastic sheet, the ornamental light fixture on that poplar beside the drive, leaves, grass clippings, mud and anything else that wasn't securely tied down or inside. Some of the debris caught an unpredictable eddy in the gust and splattered against the front of the house itself, sometimes even against the window. Runyon quickly closed the drapes and watched the lights flicker a second, before jumping like he was shot as the wind blew open the back door with a loud crack. He went into the kitchen and shoved the door shut again, this time putting the chain and bolt up, and then wiped some crud out of his eyes and mouth.

He hoped the boys at the Weather Service had gotten what they needed. He sure didn't much think he'd be venturing out to take a peek at his instruments any time while this storm was blowing. Runyon went back into the living room to retrieve his cup of cider. The booming thunder had made it slide almost half way across the table and he grabbed it just before it would have fallen to the floor.

A vivid blue-white flash of lightning lit up the room again and he braced himself for the crash. It came a split second later, jarring the house and even the fillings in his teeth as the thunder rolled across the tops of the hills. Runyon clenched his teeth and sat himself firmly down in his favorite rocking chair. Another grumble of thunder and a moment's thought made him decide it surely would be nice to call up Louis Beems and have some company. He picked up the phone from the dusty stone slab of the fireplace and pressed the receiver to his ear.

It was completely dead. In place of the dial tone, he could hear the distant, tinny sound of someone whistling at the other end.

Scotland Lake hunkered down as best it could to ride out the frenzy of the Labor Day storm. All across town, doors were locked, chained and bolted, the same with windows; drapes were drawn and families were huddled together in bedrooms and dens, their eyes darting nervously at every creak and groan of their houses. The town hadn't seen anything like it for years and there was some talk, in hushed, candlelit corners, that maybe, this time, when this terrible thing was through with us, we should get out, move away now before it comes back again. But just as often, in those same dim, shadowy rooms, there was no talk, only fear. That and the anguished whine of the wind.

The rain fell in blinding torrents, driven sideways by fierce gusts that seemed to come from all directions at once. Tyson Field behind the high school was a muddy lake just minutes after the skies had opened up and great sheets of mud were scoured from the ground and driven over the edge of the cliff right down onto Tyson Road and the flat roof of the school itself. It piled up there, packed down harder by every minute of rain that fell, until the ceiling beams could no longer support the weight and the entire structure caved in with a grinding roar that no one could have heard anyway, over the scream of the wind.

In the center of the town, the statue of Daniel Boone was toppled just as easily and broke into several pieces as it fell off its marble pedestal.

Minutes later, the front windows of the Trimble Hotel were blown out when three huge limbs were ripped from the upper reaches of the massive oak on the northwest corner of the square and came hurtling down into the glass.

And less than two miles away, at the dock by the parking lot at the end of West Ramp Road, Raymond Stocker's lake-cruising ferry, the Empress Steamer, tore loose from her mooring ropes and rode a massive swell away from shore, before the wind caught her athwartships and drove her southward against the sandy, pebble-strewn headland where the boat launch ramps jutted out. She wallowed on her side and began taking on water almost immediately.

The storm thrashed and pummeled the town until the streets were clogged with brush and mud and nearly impassable to any vehicle. Southwest of town, along U.S. 19, the rains swelled the Pioneer River to a muddy froth, surging up over its banks and washing out parts of the highway. Fortunately enough, no one attempted to go in or out of town, for if they had, the road would surely have collapsed. As it was, travelers were naturally more concerned with road conditions than with the steadily weakening foundations of the Pioneer River dam a few miles north. One man saw what was happening, however, and attempted to contact Dick Mosley and warn him the dam was in danger of being breeched. Will Travis was eighty-one years old and lived in a dilapidated trailer back in the woods not more than a good rifle shot from the "test track." He had left the trailer to see what was making that terrible howling sound, a sound unlike he had ever heard the wind make before. He trekked down the soggy hillside toward the river bottomlands, just in time to see the first great gout of water spew from the face of the low earthen dam. It was plain enough to see that the thing wouldn't last another hour if the rains kept up at this rate. Travis staggered back up the hill. toward his trailer which he kept beside a craggy cliff of pine trees and rock balds. When he got within sight of the spot, his heart sank. A sharp needle-like pain shot through his chest and arms and he dropped to his knees, fighting for breath. Just before he pitched forward into the weeds, his eyes flickering shut, he saw the trailer he had lived in for the better part of twenty-two years buried under an enormous slide of mud and uprooted trees. Will Travis never sent his intended warning to Chief Mosley.

The great Labor Day storm raged throughout the night and the citizens of the Lake endured the violence as best they could. In the hundred-odd years of the town's existence as an incorporated area, no one could recall anything of this magnitude, not even Robert McNeese, who sat quietly sipping sour mash by the fireplace of his mansion's great room, while all around the peak of Eagle Point, the winds whistled. In the steady rattle of the window panes of that room, Robert McNeese took little comfort. The house was solid but his nerves were not.

What on God's green earth has come to my little town?

He peered through the amber booze of the glass at the big, gilt-framed portrait of his great-great-grandfather Harold hanging over the double doors to the study. A deafening boom of thunder exploded directly overhead and the glasses and tumblers in the cabinet behind his chair clinked for a few seconds. In the wavering light of the great room, he could almost imagine the old coot staring down at him, shrugging.

2.

It was sixteen minutes after midnight and Dick Mosley was on his seventh beer. Or maybe it was his tenth. He had stopped counting when the little imported Swiss clock in their den had chimed twelve--the tiny blond men in their green lederhosen and the maidens in their dirndls prancing about like some child's nightmare of pixie robots. The door to the screened porch was open and Mosley had gone out and lay down on the couch next to the outer door, just to listen to the roar of the thunderstorm. That was two hours ago, when he could no longer stomach the TV set and just had to get out of the house.

He had been staring through the screen out into the black lake that had once been their backyard ever since.

Somehow, somewhere, maybe in that gray, aching twilight zone between six-packs, he had gone back into the house to pee and had come back out to the porch again with another round of beers and a yellowing sheaf of newspaper clippings. He didn't remember exactly how this came to be. The thought that he had deliberately sought out the clippings was unsettling, to say the least. A masochistic impulse. Or maybe it was what made a child put his finger on the hot stove even when he knew good and well it was going to hurt like the dickens.

Got to have a little pain to see if I'm still alive. He finally leaned over the edge of the couch and picked up the first of the clippings that he had dumped there when he had first realized what he had done.

It read: VACATION CABIN COLLAPSES, SLIDES DOWN MOUNTAIN.

Mosley sank back into the cold vinyl of the couch and thought for a minute, sucking on the edge of the beer can. That would have been Roy Thwaites and Buster Leonard, circa 1968. Yep, that was a full year before the Halloran camper. Just one of many exciting days in the saga of Scotland Lake's Years of Blood. He dropped that clipping and felt on the cement floor for another one.

This one read" DITMAR BOY KILLED IN BULLDOZER ACCIDENT. It was dated June 3, 1968. A full six months earlier.

Mosley chuckled to himself. A thunderclap exploded and jarred the framing timbers of the porch so much they swayed. The ceiling beams creaked and everything within view swam as though it were underwater. Mosley laughed out loud. Yes sir, he did indeed remember that one. Melvin Ditmar, run over by his own bulldozer on a Saturday when he was doing some extra grading for the Bull Creek development. Smashed flat into the dirt. And those scratch marks on the gear knobs and clutch... where did they come from, Mr. Mosley? Where did they come from, huh? Poor stupid Melvin; he was dead and buried in that mud pile before anyone even knew he was missing.

There were other clippings too: Tim Barnes and Mindy Linkous, two hikers doing the Appalachian Trail, mauled to death by animal attack. Diagnosis: a big fat ugly rogue bear. Might as well call it the bogeyman.

The Delaney family, burned to death in a freak forest fire near Bears Knob summit.

Sammy Atway, truck driver hauling freight north on Route 28, killed by a sharp object shattering his windshield. The truck plowed into an embankment and overturned, nearly on top of a VW bus going the other way. One dead, four badly injured. Blame that one on the bears too.

Mrs. Stella Partridge dies of food poisoning after eating a trout caught in the Pioneer River. The river is closed to fishing, boating and swimming until the state's environmental experts can analyze the water in their labs.

And of course, the Halloran camper. Of course.

Dick Mosley tossed the clippings away and drained the beer can. It burned and his eyes watered and his stomach felt like someone had stoked the flames with kerosene. He shivered uncontrollably in the bitter wind and turned over on his side to face the back cushion. closing his eyes. A pesky thought buzzed around inside of his mind and he couldn't get rid of it. He knew his eyes were screwed shut tight but it did no good at all. He could still see that garish orange and white neon tubing out in front of Louisville's honkiest honky-tonk, the Steam Palace down by the river. And the living dead that inhabited its dank, sweltering, smoky rooms, the human trash that paid to see its flesh pageants, the scarred and bug-eyed, burned-out faces that he had come nose to nose with night after night after nauseating night, a lifetime of horrible, hideous, execrable encounters with all those ghastly things that called themselves people, a lifetime of beating the beat down on Washington Street and how in the name of God had he ever gotten sucked into that hellhole? Her name was Lolette Chaney and if you'd never seen her, just try to imagine her from the sound of her name. She looked just like that.

"You're as human as the next guy," was the way he remembered that studcake dandy named Pittsburgh Pete McLain, the self-proclaimed "Emperor of Vice and Feelgood" in the Ohio River Valley, had put it. "You like a girl, you spend money on her. Now you and me know that a police officer lives on shit. Got a wife and kids to support. But you want to feel good, don'cha? Here, take this. A gift. Spend it on Lolette, if you want. Spent it all. I got lots more."

Well, like Lieutenant Posner once said, you go where your nose takes you. And my good old snout took me right into the sewer.

They were right, what they said in the City Council. THE PEOPLE OF THIS CITY WILL NOT TOLERATE BRIBERY OR KICKBACKS OR ANY KIND OF IMPROPER BEHAVIOR IN ITS POLICE FORCE. You are thoroughly dismissed, Mr. Mosley. You have disgraced this council and your own department by showing the public just how completely despicable and corrupt we all are. Please go away.

So he did. He went so far away that he would up in Scotland Lake. Two and a half miles north of nowhere, and take the right fork. You are here.

Dick Mosley suddenly sat up on the couch and opened his eyes. He got up and went over to the screen door, looking out. The wind was still blowing, an awful, sewer-smelling wind that made him wrinkle his nose. It's coming back. It's found me again.

He bloodied his fingers clawing at the screen. Repeat slowly after me: Simon says you are not going to run away this time. Simon says you are going to stand up and do your duty. I will definitely not wet my pants and lose my voice when I am in the presence of Joe Burdette.

Whoops. Simon didn't say that.

3.

Edgar Beeson had finished draining the blood from the body of Rita Donze when the power went out all over town. In the pitch black of the room, he cursed out loud and bumped his shin against the stainless-steel leg of the embalming table.

His assistant, Leonard Snow, fresh out of the College of Mortuary Science at the University of North Carolina, felt his way along the wall for the light switch and tried it a couple of times.

"No good, Ed. She's deader than..." He stopped, unwilling to finish the sentence.

"Never mind, Lenny, I know what you mean." Damn this storm. He'd used the last of his candles at the service on Sunday for the poor woman and hadn't thought to drop by the Town Pantry to pick up some more. There was no emergency generator either, although some funeral homes in the big cities had them. Ed Beeson grabbed a hold of the edge of the table so he would know where he was. If they didn't complete the embalming within a few hours, the body would start to putrefy and that would make it even harder. Those clever little bacteria didn't wait for anything.

"See if I don't have a good flashlight in my desk,'' he told Lenny. "It's probably in the top right-hand drawer. Can you get down the hall without knocking anything over?" He was proud of the antique furniture he had been collecting for years.

"I don't know. I'll try." There was a scuffling noise and then the door was open and a stream of fresh air drifted in. Beeson heard his assistant shuffling carefully across the carpet and then down the hall toward his office.

He drummed his fingers impatiently on the hard edge of the table. He looked down in the direction of the body and saw in his mind the efficient stitching job he had done to wire the head back on top of the shoulders. It was a rough one, he told himself. Not too much left of her neck but a few stringy cords of muscle. The worst thing about this job was that no one really appreciated the artistry that went into it. He'd done a quick patch up for the funeral service but after that was over, he had to set about preserving the body so that it would keep long enough for it to be retrieved by her uncle or brother or whoever the hell it was that was coming up to get her. Alex Perry had said it would be a few days. Beeson ran his fingernail along the deep chest gash he had sutured and treated with artificial skin. Sure hope I don't have to keep her too long. Even embalmed, the body would eventually decompose, giving up its fluids and growing long whiskers of penicillin mold on its face.

"Lenny, you back there?"

A muffled voice replied, "Coming, Ed. The flashlight wasn't where you said it'd be."

He heard the shuffling of feet on the carpet again and straightened up to stretch his back. They were both beat but they had to get the body done and into the freezer before it decayed any further. Something tall and shadowy slid through the door.

"Here you are." Ed felt the cool steel of the flashlight placed in his hand. He flicked the switch on and shined it down on the table. Rita Donze's vacant white eyeballs glared up at them.

"Damn it, Lenny, I thought I told you to stitch her eyes shut."

His partner went around the other side of the table for a better look. "I did. Not an hour ago, while you were on the phone to your wife." He bent over, gently taking the eyelid between his fingers. "See there? You can see where I ran the needle through. And there's the end of the thread.''

Beeson took a closer look. From deep inside the battered, purplish crater of the socket, the white sclera of the eye itself gleamed dully up at him. "I'll be damned," he muttered.

4.

Jeanne Costa picked absent-mindedly at the crusty remains of the baked potato on her plate. She hadn't had much appetite the last few days and the succession of violent thunderstorms that had settled over the Lake made her more nervous and irritable with every passing hour. The power had been out since late Monday evening--almost a full day now--and the storm still showed no signs of abating, after flogging the town with rains and squalls for better than two days.

Her husband didn't have much appetite either and stood in front of the bay window in the breakfast nook where they were eating supper, anxiously peering out at the black swollen clouds racing across the sky. "Honey, what's wrong with the weather? What is happening to us?"

Frank acted as though he hadn't heard her. She didn't like that, not at all. He'd ignored her all night and it was high time he acted a little more civil at the dinner table. She clinked her knife against the plate. ''Frank...."

"How the hell should I know!" he snapped. "You keep asking all these questions." He turned around long enough to pick up his glass and finish the iced tea. He started crunching on the ice.

"I just want a little reassurance!" she yelled back. God, how she hated the sound of someone crunching ice. He was doing it deliberately. "Is that a crime today?"

"No, but I'm getting awfully tired of having to baby you all day long. It was bad enough at the clinic today and I'm tired. Anything wrong with that?"

"No and you don't have to yell. I've got two perfectly good ears."

They ignored each other for a few more minutes and a sullen silence followed. Lightning crackled outside, a long jagged white vein of light that illuminated the darkened back yard and revealed the tangled heaps of tree limbs, uprooted bushes, trash bins, toy wagons and other debris deposited there by long, unending hours of wind. Another crash-boom of thunder shook the house and Frank turned away from the window. He sat down wearily and fished out another ice cube from his glass. "You heard the weather report lately?"

Jeanne looked up at her husband. She knew her own face probably looked worse but still she was shocked at the drawn, haggard appearance of her husband. His eyes and cheeks sagged with fatigue. "They're saying more of the same tonight. Possibly clearing tomorrow afternoon. They didn't sound too sure about it."

Frank beat his fist on the table, making the plates and his wife jump at the same time. ''Christ, how much longer can this stuff go on?"

"Please don't do that. It makes me nervous." Jeanne felt her forehead tightening up. Another headache. "You didn't finish your meatloaf."

"I'm not hungry."

"You've got to eat something, Frank. People depend on you around here."

"I can't do everything. I'm human too, you know.''

"I know. You don't have to yell."

"I'm not yelling, for Chrissakes. I'm just--" He shook his head and then lay it down on the table. ''—frustrated, I guess. What can I do if some people think the world is going to end? Give them some aspirin? That's what Tessie Tatum told me when she came in today. Do you believe that? She even had her Bible with her; wouldn't let go of it for a second. The whole time I was examining her, she was reading verses out of Revelations. "'I stood upon the sand of the sea and saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns and upon his horns ten crowns and upon his heads the name of blasphemy.' That sort of stuff. The Flood too. It made my flesh crawl, Jeanne."

"We're both restless. We've got to fight it. We'll be at each other's throats if we don't."

Frank propped his chin up on his arms and stared through the glassware at the wallpaper on the walls. Snow flakes and ice crystals. At least we haven't had that yet. "You're right. What about the neighbors--we could pull on our galoshes and go visiting. Bring some cheer and good tidings to this dump."

Jeanne looked out the bay window. "I don't particularly want to go out in that, do you?''

Frank shrugged. "I guess not." He sighed and sat up. "Well, there's always booze. And sex." He thought that might get a smile out of her but instead, the wet track of a tear had already formed on her cheeks. She lowered her head and buried her face in her hands. "Now what's wrong? Did I say something I shouldn't have?"

"No..." she sobbed. She looked up abruptly, sniffling, wiping the tears away with her fingers, but they wouldn't stop and she cried again. "I was just...thinking of Suzie...." She knocked a plate full of half eaten grapefruit salad off the table.

Frank bit his lip and looked at the mess on the floor. "Me too..." he mumbled to himself. His own eyes were wet. "Me too."
Chapter 18

1.

The Labor Day storm that had devastated Scotland Lake finally subsided by Wednesday morning. It was still drizzling when the sun came up that morning and patches of fog still hung in low-lying areas of the town, but at least the ferocious winds had abated and by mid-morning, even the mist was burning off. For the first time since Sunday afternoon, the townspeople saw the sun.

Alex and Bette Perry were appalled at the destruction the storm had brought. Just in their own neighborhood, the number of trees downed seemed beyond count. Several houses at the northern end of Elder Lane had suffered extensive damage to their front porches; one, in fact, had had a neat hole the diameter of a garbage can punched right through the cedar shingles of its roof. That was the Akins' house but a few inquiries at the front door ascertained that no one had been injured. An upstairs sitting room had been badly damaged though.

Alex figured that he had been luckier. A few heavy limbs from the persimmon tree in the back yard had taken off portions of the gutter in the back and several windows in their garage had been blown out. The worst damage, the most expensive to repair, would be delicate brickwork around the front windows, much of which had been sheared off by flying debris. As it was, half of Mr. Tackaberry's woodpile was scattered across the grass. There was also damage to the wooden slat railing around their front porch.

Alex came back from a walk down the street and found Bette up and fixing cereal and toast for Jimmy and Marcy. He sat down at the table and sipped some coffee.

"Have you gotten in touch with Miss Littleton yet, honey?" He plucked a piece of toast just as it came up and buttered it.

Bette brought him a plate full of eggs and bacon. "She doesn't answer the phone. She may not be at home but I'm beginning to worry. Kindergarten was supposed to start yesterday."

"Maybe she's out fixing up her house. Looks like just about everybody's got some repairs to do."

Bette set herself a place next to Marcy, who was licking more jam from her knife than she was putting on her toast. She stopped and smiled, when Alex stuck out his tongue at her. "We could drive over there and see if she's in, you know. Or go by the school. I'd do anything to get out of this house for awhile."

"Me too,'' said Alex. "Why don't we do that? I'd like to see what kind of damage the town has suffered.''

They finished their breakfast and got the kids dressed. Shortly after nine, they all piled into Alex's car and began a slow drive down Elder Lane to Park Street, where they turned right and gaped at the wreckage strewn about the street and yards.

Everywhere they looked, the storm had left its brutal mark. In places, the street was nearly impassable for the twisted heaps of limbs and the mud piles that clogged it. Once, Jimmy had to get out and tug a few branches out of the way so they could pass. A calm, eerie silence had descended over the Lake, made all the more striking by contrast with the whining wind they had grown accustomed to over the past few days. Now, all was quiet and hushed, as if waiting for something, and only the occasional burst of a chainsaw at work interrupted the solitude.

They turned up Ashwood and headed into town.

The square itself was in ruins. Bette noted with sorrow that the statue of Daniel Boone had been blown over; some workmen from Russell McLean's Pilot Paving Company were hard at work collecting the pieces. Several favorite trees had lost most of their limbs, including one of the apple trees that faced the police station. "What a shame," Bette murmured, as Alex drove them by. "I know it had been dead for years but it was so pretty, the way the limbs branched out like that. The square won't be the same without it."

Alex turned slowly onto Wickham. "It would have fallen down from rot before long anyway."

The Trimble Hotel seemed to have sustained the worst damage. There was hardly a window left anywhere along its front side and small knots of dazed, alcoholic residents wandered aimlessly across the street and square, surveying the debris for anything worth collecting. A few of them stared glumly at Alex's car as it circled the square but most of them seemed hopelessly bewildered, like animals flushed by some natural disaster from their favorite thickets.

Alex was grateful that the south block of stores, including his own, had been largely spared. There was minor damage to the door, where some of the paint had been scraped off and a couple of signs identifying the store and a special he had put on last week had been ripped down, taking part of the eaves with them. But the large plate glass front window was intact and the Moonlight Cafe next door seemed unaffected at all. Alex breathed a little easier.

They circled the square again and turned up Wickham for good, heading for Cowles and Miss Littleton's house. If anything, the destruction was heavier on the north side of the town. Several houses along Pulliam, including the Kemmons' split-level, had entire walls caved in from the impact of trees and concrete blocks that the wind had picked up. Even from across the ravine, they could see that the high school had been almost completely destroyed. A thick ruddy wall of mud made the lower end of Duck Hollow and all of Tyson Road impassable.

Edna Littleton's house had a tall pine resting precariously against its front gutter. Alex made everyone stay in the car, which he parked well down the street and out of danger. He trudged up the hill, through a small obstacle course of pine cones, needles, limbs and branches, and knocked loudly on the front door. He knocked several times, getting no answer. Some of the lower branches of the tree had fallen right through the front windows and through the foliage, he could see that the living room was a shambles. But there was no way he could get closer for a better look, without running the risk of having the tree fall right on top of him. He knocked once more, just for good measure, then gave up and went back to his car.

"Looks like she's not at home," he said, when he climbed back in and started the engine. ''She's probably out lining up some help for that front side. She's going to need it."

Bette eyed the damage apprehensively as they coasted by. "I hope she's all right. That could have been dangerous."

"Daddy, take us to the Dairy Queen," said Marcy. "I want an ice cream.''

"Yeah, a triple cone," said Jimmy. "With nuts on top."

"We got enough nuts in this family as it is," Alex said. "No sweets until after lunch."

"But that's two hours away," Marcy whined. She shrank back in the seat and folded her arms with a frown. "I'll die before then."

"Everybody has to suffer a little."

They drove on for awhile, crossing Duck Hollow to Azalea Circle, and eventually came to the Stocker house. Raymond was out in his front yard, with Jasmine, busily cutting the limbs off a fallen tree with his chainsaw. Alex pulled up to the curb and waved.

"Going into the lumber business?" he yelled, as they got out and walked up the asphalt drive.

Ray looked up and hoisted his saw in salute. He started to reply, realized he couldn't be heard, and switched it off. Then, he unbuttoned his shirt and threw it off onto the pile of limbs he had already attacked and wiped his forehead with a grimy towel. "Sure could use some help, buddy. You came by just in time."

Jasmine scolded him. "Ray! He's not your servant, you know."

"Well, he ought to be." He leaned against the pile and rested for a few minutes. "How is it at your end of town?"

"Bad enough," Alex told him. "But we'll be okay. I'll be glad to help for awhile. We just had to get out of that house."

"Boy, isn't that the truth? I know what you mean."

Jasmine picked up Marcy in her arms and gave her a big kiss. "Would you like something to drink, Bette? I was just about to drag my lumberjack husband inside for a fresh cup of coffee. We have some doughnuts for the kids. too. if they want them."

"Yeah!" said Jimmy. His eyes lit up.

"Well, they just had breakfast," Bette said. She ruffled Jimmy's hair. "I guess it would be okay."

''Good enough then." She massaged Ray's neck for a few minutes. "That feel better?"

"Lots. You can do that all day if you want."

Jasmine chuckled. "I'll bet. Don't you two work yourselves to death, now. We'll be inside."

"Okay." Bette and Jasmine went into the house. The children followed them.

Ray set to work with the saw again and Alex helped him as best he could, holding up branches to be cut off, clearing some of the leaves and brush away and stacking the cut pieces in the pile Ray had already started on the edge of the drive. It was hard, sweaty work, and by the time half an hour had passed, they were both sore, bruised and tired. A long, fatigued glance from Alex prompted a rueful smile on Ray's face. He cut the saw off again.

"Athletes we're not," he said, as he lay the machine on top of the woodpile. He tore off a piece of the towel for Alex to wipe his face with. He had stripped his own shirt off when they started. "It's going to take a good many months for the town to get over this." Alex said. He rubbed a bad scrape on his shoulder.

"Maybe longer," said Ray. "Maybe...never.''

"What do you mean by that?"

Ray shrugged. He was a stout man, with a dark thatch of hair covering his chest and belly. It jiggled as he hoisted himself up on a tree stump. "Not much. Just that I think the town's going to hell in a handbasket. You done any more thinking on what we talked about?"

"The development company? No. Hadn't had the time, Ray."

"You oughta take the time. I meant that offer."

"I know but I'm--I just think it's too soon for me. We're not quite settled in enough yet."

Ray snorted. "You mean you're waiting to see whether you can pass the test and get an A from the townspeople."

"Now, Ray, I didn't say that. I told you before--"

Ray held up his hand. "Please, no lectures on citizenship." He hunched forward and spat into the dirt. "Sooner or later, Mr. Perry, you're going to learn the truth. People like you and me will never be accepted in the Lake. The winds of change blow not fair here. You'd better get used to that. People like the Burdettes and Walt Ames and Louis Beems and like them run the city and they don't much like fresh blood, unless it's killed. The only way the Lake'll survive them is to bring in outside money and ideas and lots of them and fast. Otherwise, it's terminal."

"Why don't you just move away then?"

"I got too much invested here. Plus, I'm a fighter. I don't like to give in. When I was a kid in Charlotte, the guys around the neighborhood called me 'The Little Tycoon', because I was smarter and more ambitious than they were and they despised anyone trying to be better than them. I had a few paper routes, and I sometimes did the lemonade and candy bar bit, especially in the summer when the City sent road crews around to patch up the streets. The main thing is I made money, and I had a few guys working for me and everybody thought that was slavery. So they shunned me and thought up cute little names for me, like 'Greenpockets' and 'Bankboy' and so forth. And after a few years of that, the contempt became quite mutual. It's just amazing how much enmity you can earn by being successful. It accrues like interest too; the more you got, the more they hate it. The only thing different about growing up is that the peasants don't throw sticks and rocks at you anymore; instead, they throw laws. But that's why I don't plan to move anytime soon. I'm used to being despised."

"And to being aggressive as hell."

Ray smiled at that. ''You better believe it. You're sure I can't interest you in making an investment? How about buying into Nicoll's Island. I'm selling shares cheap these days."

Alex had to laugh. "You never quit, do you? Trying to unload that place on me now. I'll have to take a rain check on that one. I'll tell you what I will do though: Bette and me are going to drive over to Edgelough this Saturday to pick up some lumber and supplies to fix up our garage. If you want, we can do a little shopping for you too. Looks like your patio could stand it."

Ray beamed at the offer and hopped down to retrieve the saw. "That's awfully generous. I think I might just take you up on that. You can help me re-brick the wall too."

"Whoa, neighbor. I didn't say I'd do that," Alex laughed. "I was hoping to get a few pointers from you on masonry. Anyway, we'd be glad to pick up whatever you think you need."

"Much obliged," Ray said. He chucked the saw to the ground and wiped his hands clean of some grease. "That can definitely wait awhile. Come on and have a beer or three. I'll have to make out a list for you."

They brushed dirt and sawdust off each other, then went inside for lunch.

2.

The Town Pantry was Scotland Lake's principal grocery store and Manny Soperton had made his mind up years ago that it was going to stay that way. Other stores had opened from time to time, but none of them had the kind of feel to them that brought back customers week after week. Manny thought it was most likely the prices, which weren't really all that low, owing mainly to the need to extract maximum revenue from the tourists who dearly loved shopping in such quaint places. Or maybe it was the selection, which wasn't really all that diverse, since the people of the Lake had simple, seldom-changing tastes.

But only someone who had shopped at the Pantry for as many years as Eliza Bell, from well before Manny's time, back to the days when it was just Pittman's Foods, could have told him it wasn't any of those things at all. People came to the Pantry to gossip. It was the next best thing to the telephone that the Lake could offer, and a great deal more private at that.

Eliza Bell came to the Pantry once every two weeks, religiously on Friday, to do her shopping. She was a wrinkled, stooped woman of 56 years, with muddy brown hair and a rattling kind of breath that sounded like the noise a fan blade makes when it isn't balanced properly. She took no part in the leisurely exchange of facts and rumors among the customers but kept entirely to herself from the moment she came in the front door and selected the third from the last cart from the middle row to the point a half an hour later when she had selected what she needed and stood hunched over the counter carefully counting out the dollar bills and coins that would inevitably be exact right down to the penny to pay for her purchases. She could and did calculate the cost of everything she bought in her head, with no pad or pencil, and certainly no miniature calculator. Nor did she look up at the total on the cash register or the face of Manny Soperton while it was being rung up. She followed each piece of currency as it was picked up and placed in its proper slot until all had been collected. Then and only then, would she raise her eyes from the counter just long enough to take the receipt. In all the years he had been serving Scotland Lake and Miss Eliza Bell, there wasn't a single Friday when Manny Soperton didn't break out in a sweat wondering if just once, perhaps this time, she would fail to look up.

He wondered what might happen if she did not.

For the truth of Eliza Bell was simply that she had never forgiven the town for what had happened to her back in 1950, when she had been raped and badly beaten and left for dead in the woods behind their white frame house on Wickham Road. The young drifter Danny Boyd had been picked up and charged with the crime but his conviction only seemed to embitter Eliza Bell, who wore the stigma of her shame as outwardly as Hester Prynne had ever done. There was some talk at the time of how little evidence could be actually put forth to accuse the boy and from that, it was rumored that perhaps the guilty party wasn't Danny Boyd at all but someone else. To this, Eliza Bell added nothing, though she clearly knew the identity of her attacker. She smoldered for years with this knowledge, never offering the slightest clue as to the truth of the matter. Eventually, the town forgot the incident, insofar as Eliza Bell would let them; she went to great pains, when seen in public, to keep the collective memory of that passionate, sweltering summer of controversy alive, even to the point of wearing similar clothes, like the billowing paisley smocks which had become her trademark. So entwined had she become with this continuing role, that she had long since acquired habits of speech and thought peculiar to it. She accepted the part of Scotland Lake's tragic, brutally violated heroine with a solemn sense of duty. And she lived now as a mysterious recluse in that very same white frame house, behind a long, high hedge, spitefully silent about the event that had brought her such prominence and not a little notoriety.

Eliza Bell had finished the third aisle of the store, CANNED FRUITS AND VEGETABLES, and had taken her cart back to the meat counter to inspect the selection of pork cuts. Her cart was nearly half full with bread, milk, tea, lettuce heads and canned goods of every kind. After a few minutes of scrutiny, she decided on the cuts she wanted and put them into the cart. Then she wheeled the cart around and started up the next aisle.

Joe Burdette was standing there, stamping prices on boxes of cereal.

"Hello, there, Miz Bell," Joe said. He put the labelling gun down and placed his hands firmly over the front end of the cart. "How you doing today?"

Eliza Bell stood like a statue at the entrance to the aisle and for many minutes, said or did nothing. She did not raise her eyes once, preferring to stare at the items she had stacked neatly around the edge of the cart. She had not been this close to Joe Burdette for many years and the fact of his presence was evidently something difficult to accept. From the next aisle over, peering through the cracks in the shelf that Joe hadn't yet covered up with boxes, Manny Soperton watched in amazement.

Eliza Bell finally summoned enough strength to raise her eyes, which she did slowly, and glare with scarcely concealed loathing. Her lips tightened and her throat muscles constricted, as if she found the taste of the encounter a bitter one. She straightened herself up, as much as was possible, and regarded Joe coldly.

A faint smirk crossed Joe's face. "Nasty weather we've had, isn't that right, Miz Bell?"

"Very nasty," she mumbled.

"It's been a long time since I seen you in here. You keepin' yourself up?"

"I live. What is it you want?"

"Oh, nothing special, nothing to fret about. Just thought I'd be neighborly and say hello.''

Eliza Bell stuck her lower lip out; it quivered as she realized that Joe had no intention of releasing the cart. She lowered her eyes from that face she despised so and fixed them on the dull brown metal buckle to his belt. Above it, his checked shirt was taut with the bulge of too many beers. Below it ....

"I don't have anything to say to you, Joe Burdette. Get out of my way.''

"Why, Miz Bell," Joe chuckled, "what a thing to say to an old acquaintance such as me. I am deeply hurt by that. Tell me: have I done something to offend you in particular?" The smirk broadened into something just short of a grin.

Eliza Bell trembled with anger and sniffed indignantly. "I don't expect it would much matter if you had. We got nothing to talk about, Joe. Let me by."

"Nothing to talk about? My, my," Joe clucked reproachfully, "I do believe your memory is failing you. All those handsome days, when we were younger. Weren't they nice? You certainly were a fancy colt back then. I know you haven't forgotten that."

"No," said Eliza, with a shudder. She lifted her eyes once more. "I haven't forgotten."

Joe nodded appreciatively. ''Good. That was the best part of our lives, wasn't it? Don't expect they'll ever come around again. unless—" He stopped upon seeing Manny Soperton round the corner. "What'cha got there, Manny?"

"Some bran I want you to put up.'' Manny handed an armful of boxes to Joe, smiling awkwardly at Eliza as he passed the cart. "Morning, there, Miz Bell. You got that all totaled up in your head yet?"

He stopped short when Eliza reached out to grab his jacket. Manny watched her shaking hands cling to the cloth sleeve and was so surprised, he didn't know what to do or say. Eliza Bell had never done that before. She even looked at him, her eyes glistening, questioning, there was something she wanted to say and even now, the words were there, forming in her mouth, ready to burst out but they did not. She closed her mouth, sucked at her lips and was silent. She muttered something to the groceries in her cart and then, with her head down and that severe Eliza Bell set to her face once more, she nudged the cart forward.

"Let Miz Bell by, Joe. She's got her shopping to do."

Joe Burdette let go of the cart but did not move aside. He didn't have to; Eliza quickly steered it around him and stalked off down the aisle. She disappeared around the corner.

Manny looked at Joe Burdette suspiciously. ''What'd you do to make her act so strange like that?"

"All I said was hello." Joe tried to look hurt by it all and went back to his labelling.

Manny scratched his chin thoughtfully. What was the world coming to when Eliza Bell looked at him twice in one day?
Chapter 19

1.

Saturday came clear and cool to the mountains around the Lake, the first taste of fall the town had seen so far. The sky was a hard, bright gem-like blue and what clouds there were raced along before brisk northwest winds. Sometime after the sun had risen that tingling late-summer morning, the first great migratory flocks of Canadian geese darkened the eastern horizon. And way over on the other side of town, the throaty rumble of diesel engines warming up in the paddock of the Early Bird Truck Stop presaged yet another kind of migration.

Alex Perry was quietly glad that Mr. and Mrs. Tackaberry had offered to keep Jimmy and Marcy for a few hours while he and Bette drove over to Edgelough and did a little shopping for supplies at Hammond's Building Supply. He was looking forward to the two-hour drive; it would take them right up into the Great Smoky Mountains National Park and some of the most spectacular scenery the Southern Appalachians had to offer. More importantly, he was anxious to spend a few thoughtful hours with his wife. She had been increasingly edgy lately, not surprisingly given the happenings in the town. They had learned two days before of Miss Littleton's accident at her house; she was now at Appalachian General with a broken arm and multiple head lacerations. "She looked awful," Bette had said, upon returning from a visit yesterday. `'Bruises and cuts everywhere. She may have scars too. And she was lucky that tree didn't kill her."

Alex well remembered the anxious look on his wife's face when she got back. She had been talking in general terms the last few weeks about leaving Scotland Lake, that maybe it wasn't such a good place after all and anyway, it was so far from civilization (by which she meant Atlanta) and wouldn't it be nice to see some of our old friends again? Alex knew where that kind of thinking would lead her and he hoped to head it off before it went too far. A few hours alone with her, on a beautiful, picture-postcard day like today, would go a long way toward dispelling her fears.

They dropped the kids off at the Tackaberrys about 9:30 and headed out of town north along U.S. 19. Eugene had promised to take the kids swimming in the lake that afternoon, if it warmed up enough. "Please don't spoil them," Bette had insisted, as she finished the list of things she wanted to buy in Gatlinburg. There was a darling little shopping center right in the center of the town, with the kind of boutiques you wouldn't have found in Scotland Lake in a million years and Alex had promised her the entire afternoon to rummage through the stores, as a way of putting her in the right frame of mind. "We should be back by eight, at the latest. And thank you so much, both of you, for keeping them. If there's anything we can do...."

They said very little to each other until the last reminder of Scotland Lake had passed by: the Sawyer mill works, now slowly crumbling to the ground behind its thickening screen of weeds and kudzu. A sign came up: BRYSON CITY 22 MILES. It wasn't until they had passed that sign and climbed the twisting two-lane asphalt road over the ridge beyond, that they finally felt free of the Lake's influence.

2.

Jack Blanchard staggered a little as he watched the Savage Serpent careen along its track overhead. Trying to follow the cars as they looped and dived through the course of the roller coaster, plunging down to within a few feet of the water in the lagoon, made him dizzy and sick and he groped for a place to sit down next to the control board. It didn't help that he had already tossed off two full bottles of vodka and a jigger of something he couldn't remember since sun-up. He lay his head carefully in the palm of his hand and waited wearily for the Serpent to finish its run.

It was Saturday and Nicoll's Island was almost deserted. Jack spied Raymond Stocker a few hundred yards away, operating the Ferris wheel for several children. They wouldn't be able to keep the park open much longer with crowds like this; after Labor Day, the tourists dropped off to a bare trickle. Jack knew that Stocker was already shutting down some sections of the park, so the big closedown couldn't be far away.

That thought brought a big smile to his face.

The Serpent was nearing the end of its run, just coming out of the double corkscrew and long dive down to the platform. Jack squinted at the flashing row of cars, trying to beat back the headache that kept thumping inside his head. There were seven cars to a unit; he had already forgotten how many he had boarded for this run.

The lead car had the leering grin and painted-on teeth of a big serpent, in two shades of green and purple. Jack pressed a button on the console to engage the brakes when the car reached the trigger point and waited. As the little train came whistling down the slope and began slowing, he reached beneath the console where he had a beer stowed. Still woozy from a long night at Sneaky Pete's with Sandy, and this morning's postscript, he wasn't too careful where he set the can down, so long as it was out of Boss Stocker's sight. The edge of the can brushed the brake button.

Jack finished his beer as the cars glided in next to the platform. Two boys, brothers Jack imagined, were waving and screaming in the front car. The only other passengers were a young mother (not a bad piece of tail, Jack thought) and her twin, red-haired daughters. The boys' parents waited patiently on the platform. Jack left the console to help them out.

For emergency purposes, and for safety too, the cars of the Savage Serpent were stopped and held fast in several ways; otherwise, the electric current flowing to the drive mechanism would keep them circulating around the track forever. The brake button on the operator's console engaged the braking drums on the cars themselves electrically and was the main way of stopping the roller coaster. They could be applied anywhere on the track to keep the cars from careening out of control. There were automatic tripping mechanisms too, for when acceleration forces exceeded a certain maximum.

Once the cars had come to a complete stop at the platform, the operator was supposed to engage a manual brake that extended two "hands" to clutch the forward wheels of the leading car and hold it fast to the track. This was engaged by a lever located in a gear and fuse box on the railing around the platform.

Jack Blanchard was so wobbly that he neglected to move that lever out of its retracting detente.

He stepped up on the platform, nodded a hazy greeting to the two parents and when the cars had come to a complete stop, leaned down to raise up the safety bar and let the boys exit. Even as he was doing this, a gentle breeze drifting in from across the lake cooled the faces of everyone standing under the warm September sun. It was a refreshing breeze, no more than a few knots, just barely enough to stir the branches of the pines and hemlocks planted about the island. It was also enough to move the beer can Jack had left on the console. The can fell to the cement and the brake button it had held down popped back up.

The older of the two boys was a chubby, black-haired fellow wearing a striped shirt. He had one foot on the side of the car and one foot still in the footwell when the car jerked forward, no longer held by the electric brake. The sudden movement threw the boy backward, head over heels, into the next car which was empty. As the Serpent gathered speed again, accelerating out of its dock, the boy tumbled across the seat and safety bar of the second seat and over the side. For one horrifying second, it seemed as though he might slip down onto the track bed itself, between the cement wall and the roller coaster. Only by scrambling and clawing at the rubber bushings along the wall and by a great deal of luck, was the boy able to clear the gap and clamber shaking and white-faced up onto the platform. He collapsed almost immediately.

"KEVIN!" The boy's mother screamed and went flying to his side. His father stood rooted to the spot, unable to decide which way to go. One son had nearly been decapitated falling out of the roller coaster. The other one, flailing wildly and crying, was shooting up the long incline that led into the Serpent's first hairpin turn and loop. "Kevin, are you all right, honey?" She raced to his side and cradled the boy's head in her arms.

Jack had been thrown back by the sudden acceleration of the car. When he realized what had happened, he tried the manual brake but the roller coaster was moving too fast for it to hold and all he got was a loud, grinding sound and some sparks. Then, he ran back to the console, saw that the brake button had come up and stabbed it with his finger. He looked up at the train.

It was poised just on the edge of the long dive leading into the first loop. Slowly, it ground to a stop, hanging right on the edge of the drop. Even though he was far away, Jack could see the little boy clinging in terror to the safety bar. When he was sure the brake would hold, he let the button go and took a deep breath.

"FOR CRYING OUT LOUD WHAT'S GOING ON HERE?"

He was glad he had taken that breath. Raymond Stocker came bounding up to the platform, his face screwed into something about equal parts anger, worry and incredulity. He stood with his mouth open, shaking his head at Jack. "What are you trying to do, son, kill them?"

Jack looked up blankly and shrugged. Everything was hazy and spinning and he grabbed the sides of the console to steady himself. Something hot and sour was rising in his throat. "It...was...accident..." he said thickly. Then he burped and sighed, feeling a little better.

Raymond Stocker stared at his oldest employee with mounting fury. His mouth worked but nothing came out and Jack thought that terribly funny. He laughed in spite of himself.

Ray bit off his words carefully. "Jack, get away from that console. Right now." He waited a second to see if the boy would obey. When he didn't, he barged in and shoved him aside. Then he concentrated on bringing the other boy around the track and back to the platform safely. A few minutes later, he was in his mother's arms, whimpering.

Ray slumped over the console for a second to let the tension drain. Why are all my employees such idiots? Aren't I a generous man? A shadow crossed his face and he looked up, seeing Jack still there, standing first on one foot then the other, awkwardly picking at his teeth with his fingers. It was plain as day he was smashed to smithereens on something. "You are through," he hissed at the boy. Jack just grinned at him like a dope and gave him an incongruous thumbs-up gesture.

Ray went over to the couple and their children. The father had finally made himself useful by daubing at a scrape on Kevin's chin. Ray squatted down to get a better look.

"I'm terribly sorry about this, ma'am. It shouldn't have happened and I apologize there's just no excuse for it and you can be sure the boy will be punished." He stopped to get a breath and to wipe the film of sweat from his forehead and the palms of his hands. "Is he going to be all right, do you think?"

Kevin's mother seemed calm, even unperturbed about it all. She nodded, wiping at the scrape a little herself. "I think so. Probably won't even need stitches. But you ought to have that roller coaster checked. It's dangerous."

Kevin's father stood up and cleared his throat. "This sort of thing shouldn't happen, you know."

Ray continued apologizing profusely and nodding in agreement with whatever they said. With visions of lawsuits that could ruin him overnight, he offered to pay for any medical expenses and when that didn't seem sufficient, he insisted they ride every ride at the park for free and then go into town and have the best dinner the Lake could offer on him. "Please, it's the least I can do to make this up." He put his arm around the man's shoulder but the attempt at friendliness was wasted. The man had already taken the cue from his wife.

''I don't think there's any way you could make up for the fright my boys have had."

"No, sir." Ray said glumly. "I suppose not." He saw Jack standing dumbly on the ground next to the platform. I've got to do something. All the months of aggravation came flooding back, the ingratitude, I gave the worthless screw-up a job when nobody else would—he can't even fly a plane without cracking up. The anger burst out in a torrent. "Jack, you can just get the hell out of here right now before I kick your behind all the way to the moon and back! Go on, get out of my sight!"

Jack cocked his head like a dog being scolded and burped again. "What you talking about, Mr. Stockyard?"

"I AM TELLING YOU THAT YOU ARE FIRED AND YOU'D BETTER GO BEFORE I GET MAD, YOU--" He held his tongue, flushed with embarrassment. Kevin watched them both, wondering what they might say next. ''Just get away from me, Jack. I don't want to see you around here again."

"Well, hey," said Jack, burping again, "that's just fine with me, you little bug-eyed tyrant. I could sell the Caverns and buy this stink hole with the change, you know. I oughta do that just so I could turn around and fire your butt."

"Jack, I'm warning you .... "

Jack clutched his hands to his heart in mock terror. "Don't beat me, master, don't beat me. I'm going. With pleasure, too. Oh, and tell that luscious wife of yours that me and Sandy enjoy her gyrations in the window when she gets out of the bath." He winked at Ray. "I'll bet she'll like that."

He turned and stalked off, heading for the docks where the ferry was moored.

Ray was livid. He started after the boy, much to the chagrin of Kevin's parents, then thought better of it. He realized he was trembling. No one talks to me like that. "You leave that damn ferry where it is!" he yelled after Jack. He got a one-digit gesture back for a reply and cursed under his breath.

Kevin's father folded his arms and looked down at the sweating scalp of Raymond Stocker with contempt. "Really, sir, I don't think there was any cause for that. And your language is offensive, to my children and to me."

Ray kept on glaring at the swaggering walk of Jack Blanchard as he sauntered up to the pier. "Oh, shut up." he muttered. "Just shut up, will you?"

Jack got to the pier and looked around. He was itching for a way to get back at Ray. Better leave the ferry for the customers, he thought. Still, there was something he could do.

He shook his head to get some feeling up there. His skull was going numb. He hopped down to the wharf itself and studied the mooring ropes. The Empress Steamer had taken on a lot of water during the Labor Day storm and her planking had been nearly stove in on that headland where they had found her a few days ago. He grimaced, thinking how long and hard he had worked Tuesday and Wednesday cleaning the boat up. They had been fortunate the damage wasn't worse.

Jack grinned and stooped down, slipping the ropes from their cleats. He wouldn't remove then completely, just enough so that with some tugging, they would unravel and the old ferry would start drifting away. That way, it couldn't be blamed on him. He looked around to make sure no one had seen him.

There were a couple of aluminum canoes tied up down at the other end of the dock, the same ones he had gone fishing in so many times. He took the newer one and stepped in, nearly tumbling overboard as he reached for the paddle. He plopped down on the bench and shoved off.

Once he was clear of the Steamer's stern, he stopped paddling for a few minutes and let the gentle current carry him along. It was a general southerly current, driven by the winds for the most part, that would eventually carry him across the eastern half of the lake and probably beach him under the steep bluffs by the picnic grounds. He didn't care. He wasn't in a great hurry anyway. He lay back in the boat and stared up at the afternoon sky. Clouds had formed since noon, thick gray braids of clouds that raced along toward the northeast like they were being chased. It was an odd-looking formation but Jack soon put it out of mind. He settled back to let the freshening breeze wash over his face.

In the two or so hours it took for the lake current to carry the canoe to the shore and ground it against a sandbar, few thoughts of any consequence came into Jack's mind. He was content to watch the clouds thicken to the north, heralding yet another thunderstorm. That and the ever-present swarms of mosquitos that buzzed over the water were all that Jack noticed until the canoe bumped gently against a sunken tree limb and snagged itself on the sandbar.

He didn't know precisely where the idea had come from. Maybe it was the mosquitos, the greedy little suckers. Or maybe, and more likely, the idea had been germinating for a long time, and Greta's death had fertilized it. In any case, by the time Jack sloshed through the reedy shallows, dragging the canoe up onto the shore, he had come to two decisions about his life.

Somehow, some way, before he left this scummy dogpile of a town, he was going to get his revenge on Scotland Lake. And then, before he left, he was going to propose to Sue Kemmons.

3.

A freak thunderstorm broke over the mountains only a few minutes after Alex and Bette Perry had passed the Sawyer mill works. The speed with which it gathered and the force of the downpour surprised both of them and Bette groaned as it soon became evident that they would have to pull over to the side of the road and wait it out. Blinding sheets of rain pelted the asphalt and car and the wind whined fiercely as it drove huge gouts of dirt and leaves and branches skittering across the road.

Bette pressed her face to the side window and shuddered at the depth of the ditch they had nearly run into. Through the windshield, a solid sheet of water poured down, obscuring even the end of the hood. She sank back in the seat with an enormous sigh, her arms wrapped around her shoulders. "Not again," she muttered. "I thought we were through with this stuff."

Alex cut the engine when he saw they would be waiting for awhile. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently. "It looks like it'll blow over in a few minutes. Maybe we're just going to have an early fall this year."

''I'm beginning to feel like that character in Snoopy that always has a rain cloud over his head. Jimmy and Marcy sure will be disappointed if they can't go swimming."

Alex nodded. "I was looking forward to a nice, peaceful drive through the mountains myself."

''You want to turn back?"

"No. No sense in that. These storms usually don't last very long."

"Except when they last two and a half days and blow the whole town down."

They were silent for a few minutes, as the rain beat a steady din on the roof of the car. Finally, Alex turned to his wife and laid his hand over hers. Instinctively, she squeezed back. "I know a way we could pass the time.''

A slow smile spread over Bette's face. She closed her eyes. "You remember when we were dating and you always took me parking in that woodsy area over the ball fields?"

"Yeah. It was such an obvious place, no one ever used it." He slid over and drew her head against his chest. They kissed lightly and he unbuttoned her blouse. She did the same to him and the iron pendant fell out, brushing her neck. She shivered. "Why don't you get rid of that ugly thing?"

Alex kissed her again. "Let's just say I'm superstitious."

"It doesn't remind you about...Rita?"

"She wanted me to have it. Now are you going to talk to me or love me?"

Bette smiled and ruffled his hair. Outside, the rain pelted the car without let-up and the wind howled like a dying animal. "Let's get in the backseat, honey. There's more room back there."

4.

Sam Burdette leaned back in his big leather chair early Saturday afternoon and sipped thoughtfully on a Scotch and water. Across the study, nestled in a book-lined cove beneath a framed portrait of Sam shaking hands with Dwight D. Eisenhower (Augusta National, 1957, in the clubhouse and he'd nearly been kicked in the kidneys by a Secret Service man two minutes before) was the television set. It was on, tuned to a Tennessee Volunteers football game, the first of the season. But the volume was down low because Sam had the radio he kept on his desk tuned to the Weather Service reports coming out of Asheville. He didn't especially like what he heard.

He had spent the morning puttering around the house, not really anxious to go into town and sit in that cramped office in the Town Center that smelled of too much floor wax and beer. The town's business could be run just as efficiently from his own house on the lee side of Bears Knob Mountain and besides that, he didn't have to listen to complaints from citizens about potholes on Cluett Street or how Ira Wembley's ugly iron fence despoiled the whole Indian Bend neighborhood and couldn't we please get a zoning change to make him tear it down? There were times when being Mayor of Scotland Lake, as he had been now since 1960, weighed heavily on Sam's sense of self-importance. He could and did more easily imagine himself strolling into the Highlanders Country Club in Asheville as a tycoonish corporate executive with a bottomless expense account or maybe even a high-ranking federal appointee to the next administration in Washington. Yep, he thought to himself, that would be a pleasant and suitable role for someone of my talents and experience to play. Being Chief Executive of a mountain hamlet nobody had ever heard of and President of its one and only bank didn't carry the kind of weight in the Highlanders' posh cocktail socials that he thought he deserved.

The whiny nasal twang of the weather forecaster interrupted his daydreams and Sam sat up in his chair to listen.

"--chance of widely scattered afternoon and evening thundershowers, some of them locally heavy with flooding confined mainly to low lying areas of poor drainage. The National Weather Service has issued a severe weather watch for the following counties--''

Sam Burdette knitted his brow and took another sip. This weather is going to drive me crazy. He didn't much think the town could survive another storm like the last one. He listened a few minutes longer, heard the same forecast over again and then switched the radio off.

The football game was still in pre-game activities so Sam swung himself out of the chair and went over to the fireplace to get a little blaze going. It wasn't cold outside at all but he liked the idea of a fire in the study for its coziness. Sometimes, he even had one going in the middle of July, with the air conditioning blowing full blast all over the house. It was wasteful, he would admit, and expensive too, but it was the mood he was after: intimacy and reflection. It was the kind of atmosphere he needed in order to dream up ways of showing off to that egotistical peabrain Raymond Stocker.

Sam threw in some kindling from the barrel by the andirons and then stuffed pieces of old newspaper around it. A few matches later, he had a little fire crackling and stood up to admire his work. Oddly enough, the flickering glow and the sound of logs snapping made that dismal clatter of rain on the roof seem all the more pleasurable. Yes, indeed, a man of his obvious taste and intelligence ought not be wasted on such a place as the Lake.

He retrieved his drink from the desk, refreshed it from the bar above the TV console. and made himself comfortable in a recliner next to the fireplace.

He was about to reach for the yellow legal pad he always kept handy in case a useful idea occurred to him when he heard an odd, desolate howl, from way off in the hills outside. He sucked at the pencil and shut out the sound of the fire and the rain. Was it the wind he had heard? It came again, a little louder this time.

A thin, agonizing wail came echoing across the mountaintops. Ain't no way it could be a wolf—hadn't seen one of them in years. The lowest notes of the wail lasted a long time, drawn out and fading ever so slowly, until at last they were lost in the clatter of the rain. In spite of the fire, he no longer felt so cozy and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He gulped some Scotch.

Got to be a dog.

He wondered whose it could be. He had never owned one and the nearest house was probably Louis Beems.

Goatface had a lot of animals around his stables besides horses; his place was the closest thing the Lake had to a zoo, unless you counted the petting zoo at Nicoll's Island. But there was something distinctly un-doglike about the sound. It came one more time and Sam listened carefully.

AAAAooooooooooooooooohh.

All of a sudden, his throat went dry. He put the glass down on its coaster with a trembling hand and got slowly and carefully out of the recliner. That ain't no damn dog. But it had to be. The whine sounded for all the world like a human voice, someone imitating an animal. Like he'd seen the Indians do on television. That old dead chief in the Caverns is waking up. He wished almost at once he hadn't thought of that. It was meant to be funny.

The wail came again, louder and closer, and this time, Sam ran to the window behind his desk. He rubbed the fog off it with his shirt sleeve and peered out into the front yard. The wind was blowing hard but the rain was so heavy that he could not see to the edge of the woods that shielded his house from exposure on the side of Bears Knob. Somewhere out there beyond the wavering trees, the ground dropped off sharply to a steep gorge several hundred feet below. He couldn't see anything yet he was sure the source of the howling was getting nearer.

Now wait just a minute, big boy. Your name is Burdette. What the hell do you think Joe would do ln a situation like this?

Well, one thing was for sure: he wouldn't be hiding in a closet. I ought to call him up and get him out here—no, he'd only laugh. Sam rubbed his hands nervously. There was a rifle mounted over the mantel, an old Winchester Joe had given him once when he was trying to teach him the fine points of hunting. He'd given up the project as hopeless, saying, "You couldn't hunt a pigeon if it landed on your head and pooped in your face, Sam." That sure did make him mad but then Joe was no amateur at doing that.

There was only one thing he could do. Go out there and see what it was. Most likely one of Louis's stray mutts, crying to get out of the rain. Sam went to the big closet in the foyer and pulled on a slicker and hat. He had some boots out in the garage. On his way to get them, he took down the Winchester and checked the chambers. The action was a little rusty but that was okay. He didn't plan to load it; he didn't even have any shells. He stalked down the hall, rain coat swishing against the paneling and burst out into the garage. The howling came again, a terrible tortured shriek that hurt his ears. It must be right outside to be so loud. He wished to God he had made up another Scotch before coming out.

With his boots laced up and his hat pulled down low, Sam Burdette put his hand on the back door of the garage and slowly turned it. He cracked the door and got a cold, chilling gust of mist-laden wind in his face. He opened it a little further and hitched up the slicker around his neck.

I wonder if this is in my Mayor's contract.

He steeled his nerves and stepped out into the storm, hunched down low to keep the stinging sheets of water out of his face. He hustled around the garage, splashing through the drowned rock garden in the side yard and came to the front drive.

From somewhere off in the woods, the howl returned. Its pitch had shifted, ever so slightly.

5.

Despite the cold whistling wind and the incessant thrumming of the rain, the air inside Alex's car was hot and stagnant and the low moaning in the back seat easily obscured the noise of the storm raging outside. Bette clung tightly to her husband, her arms locked around his neck, pulling him into her deeper and faster. Alex grunted hoarsely with each new thrust.

It was crowded in the back seat, with no room for legs, so Bette wound up wrapping hers around Alex's back. She was hot and dazed and her neck ached from the way her head rested against the armrest. But it was good, and she didn't want it to end, so she held on hard and pulled him in even deeper.

She could feel the stitching on the edge of the seat gouging into her buttocks and it made every push more exquisite. She shivered as Alex's tongue probed her neck and dug her fingers into the flesh of his back. They rocked on, steaming up the windows, until she felt like he was going to plunge right through her. She struggled for breath and squirmed deliciously as a warm shudder surged through her body and she came.

Her husband wasn't through so she patted his butt and ran her fingernails down his sides. He groaned and trembled, pressing harder and longer, stretching for the peak. He was heavy and sluggish today, she thought, not at all like he had been a few weeks before. Those times they had done it since they had returned from Savannah were incredible; she'd never known such a feeling in her life. He was quick and angry those nights, pumping her dry of all feeling until she ached and throbbed and cried until exhausted. He was unbeatable back then, an engine she couldn't stop and God it was good—she hadn't ever wanted those hours to end, even after she was drained and bleeding and cramped all over. She didn't know what had been in him then but whatever it was, it was gone now. She had even been frightened a few times, really scared: how much longer could he go on? He was just bottomless and she drank very deeply of a passion and fever he had never shown, before or since. She was sorry to see it go.

Alex made it while she was thinking and the shudder of his sweaty back brought her out of the reverie. She smiled and patted him affectionately, whistling in his ear. "You're a credit to your gender, honey. How was it?"

He mumbled something and pulled out, raising up on his forearms to brush her lips with his. Sweat dripped from the end of his nose and she caught it with her tongue. "I said we should slum it up in a car like this again."

"You like doing it on the road, huh?"

"Yeah. But look at us; we're a mess."

"What if Chief Mosley finds us--" She stopped in mid-sentence when a huge branch crashed into the rear window, cracking the glass. Bette jumped a foot. "My God, what was that?"

Alex sat up on his legs. His heart was racing. They had both been startled. "It was a limb, looks like." A jagged fracture formed in the glass and the wind whistled through it. ''Damn, it cracked the glass."

"Mmmm, that's cold. Help me get my jeans back on, will you?" She wriggled around, hitching up her pants and pulled down her blouse. It was badly wrinkled and drenched with sweat. She sat up and smoothed out her hair. "You going to drive over to Edgelough naked?"

Alex socked her playfully on the chin. "You'd be shifting my little gear the whole way."

He was zipping up his own pants when they both stopped still, holding their breath. Bette leaned up on the rear dash, close to the window crack. "Did you hear something out there?"

Alex nodded. "I thought I did. The wind?"

Bette shushed him. "It wasn't the wind. Listen –"

Sure enough, just barely audible over the wind, they could hear a scream, long, anguished, excruciatingly faint, but a scream nonetheless. A human scream.

"Do you hear what I hear?" Bette whispered.

Alex was already hurriedly re-dressing. The scream seemed to last for an inordinately long time, as if the source were possessed of limitless breath. There was the timbre of desperate helplessness in each terrible second.

Bette shuddered and took hold of her husband's hands. "God, that's hideous." Alex squeezed her hand absent-mindedly and abruptly pushed it away. "Honey, what are you doing? You're not thinking of going out there?"

He was already unlocking the back door. "Someone's in trouble, Bette. We can't just ignore them, not with what's been happening around here lately."

"But it's pouring out there. You don't have a coat. We didn't even bring an umbrella."

Alex nudged the door open and looked down to see a river of mud surging by. There was a loud rattling crash of thunder and rain swirled into the car as he opened the door wide.

"I can't help it!" he yelled over the roar of the wind. "Somebody needs help fast!"

Bette grabbed his arm. ''Then I'm coming too! Wait just a minute--"

"No! You stay here! I'll only be gone a minute!" He got out, nearly slipping on the mud. It came up halfway to his knees. "And keep this door locked until I get back!" Rain streamed over his head, soaking his hair and dribbling down his face. He saw the worried frown on her face and braved a wan smile. "I'll be okay, really! Just stay here!" With that, he slammed the door shut and was off. After a minute's thought to get her wits back, Bette reached over and pushed down the lock button. She curled up in the corner of the back seat, still only half dressed and began chewing on her fingernails. Alex disappeared in seconds.

His first obstacle was to ford the raging stream that the ditch beside the car had now become. The banks were soft and footing impossible so Alex scrambled along the edge until he found a narrower stretch. With a running jump and a prayer that he didn't slip, he was able to make it over. He landed on his hands and knees and was immediately covered in more mud.

He wiped his hands off on his pants and started trudging into the woods ahead. Once under the canopy of trees, the rain slackened a bit and he was able to see better. His hair was plastered against his forehead and his eyes already ached from squinting so hard.

He stopped when he came to a dense thicket of dripping vines. Which way? The scream hadn't come again since he'd left the car. Without waiting, he scampered off to the right, in the direction of a sloping grassy hillock he could barely see a few hundred yards ahead. From there, maybe he could get a better view.

He stumbled over a tough wiry tree root concealed under a pack of leaves and twisted his knee. Wincing, he got to his feet and struggled on.

The wind swirled crazily on the forest floor, flinging debris and rotten tree limbs in every direction. Alex had to shield his face with his arm and his shoes soon became waterlogged. The ground was soft and unsteady; more than once, he twisted his ankle in ruts well concealed by thick mud and leaves.

He stopped short when a terrifying scream filled the air. It came from somewhere ahead of him and, incredibly, it seemed from above him. He looked up into the stinging rain, trying to find the source. The dense green canopy was hidden by the mist and rain.

He pressed on, heart racing, out of breath, chilled to the bone, but determined to get to that scream. Was he imagining it or did that voice sound familiar? There was something in that awful tortured cry he had heard before. God don't let it be anyone I know.

The land sloped steeply to his right and he had to grab hold of every tree trunk and vine he could to keep from slipping down the bank. He lost his footing when an old log, black and crumbly, gave way. He flailed for a second, then fell backwards, rolling over and over down the bank, bumping and snagging rocks and branches until he felt as though he was coming apart. Down he plummeted, wrenching his neck, bloodying his hands and his face, scraping his back, knees, his stomach. He skidded on a mud patch, before rolling again, this time bruising his shoulder on a stump and knocking the breath out of him. How long he fell he never knew. It seemed like an hour. He grew dazed and faint, only dimly aware of the storm all around him, and soon gave up thinking about it. It was only several numb minutes after he had crashed into a barrier of sopping wet kudzu vines and become completely enmeshed in the vines that he came to his senses.

He groaned, rubbing his battered head. His eyes were puffy and a thin stream of blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth. Back up the hill, he could see a beaten down path of flattened grass and saplings. He whistled softly. From the looks of it, he had fallen a hundred feet.

And I've got a bruise for every one of them.

Tenderly, he sat up and then realized with a start that he had been very lucky to fall into the vines. On the other side of the barrier, a tiny stream, now swollen by heavy rains, churned down a twisting, rock-strewn course. If he had fallen into that ....

((it was Life they took from us in the end, laddie))

Alex stood up abruptly and looked around. Had he heard a voice? The screaming seemed to have stopped. He kicked at some of the underbrush. Nothing. What was that?

((i'm ready to come home, perry))

It wasn't a voice. It wasn't even a thought. Alex stood completely still, the wind whipping his soaking hair into his eyes. He felt numb and cold and beaten. "No," he muttered to himself. ''No. I'm alone. I'm tired. I'm drenched...

((and hungry too, no doubt))

"Shut up!"

((oh, come now, you aren't very civil today))

Alex spied a jagged stick lying at the foot of a long vine. He bent down to pick it up but before he could, it moved. Startled, he jerked his hand back, only to have it rapped on the knuckles by the stick. He rubbed at the bruises and backed away.

"What are you?" he hissed. He looked up, all around, squinting, trying to see something, anything.

((i am the shadow of every man, perry--i am the lord of the ocean. if you like--i am the tempest-bringer, the sovereign of the sea, whatever name you choose))

"You're the Devil, sir!"

((if you wish))

"Leave me alone. I can't take it any longer. Why do you want me?"

((but i have always wanted you—please, let me in, perry, and i promise you will feel much better))

"I AM SICK OF THIS GO AWAY BLAST YOUR FOUL STINKING INNARDS

TO HELL AND BACK!! "

((he says he is sick of us))

Fancy that.

We'll just have to cure him, won't we

\--aye, and cool that temper of his--

**parasites don't thrive at all in hot water**

Alex staggered about the clearing, clutching his head, beating sense back into it. He clawed at his ears, digging his fingernails in so hard they drew blood. Everything was spinning, the wind was crying, sucking up the ground, dirt, rocks, branches, spinning spinning spinning....

"LEAVE ME ALONE GODDAMN YOU!!"

A large kinked branch flew into his face, knocking him to the ground. With the air frosty and choking full of soil and bark and vines, whirling about the clearing madly, the branch struck him hard across the face again. And again. He tried to fight it off but he only managed to break it in two and both pieces continued the attack. He was thrashed by the branches for several minutes, until his eyes were puffy and red and his face badly scraped. Then, just as suddenly as it started, the assault stopped and the wind carried the branches off.

He lay on the ground for a moment, stunned, trying to get his breath back. As he gulped in huge draughts of air, the wind seemed to gain strength. With each wheezing breath, it gained speed. He couldn't stop breathing. He needed oxygen. He tried to control his inhaling but it was useless. Every new gulp produced an increase in wind speed. By the time he had gotten most of his breath back, the wind had become a gale and it tore angrily at the iron pendant around his neck.

Alex gagged and tried to roll over but the force of the wind pulled him to his feet and nearly strangled him. His eyes bulged as the pendant wrapped itself around his neck and he clawed at the cord frantically. It was wound tightly and snapped up in his face, the iron part striking him again and again. He tried to grab the pendant but each time he lunged, it jerked away, just out of reach. There was a roaring sound in his ears, the sound of heavy surf crashing, and the tips of his fingers and toes were growing numb. With one final, desperate grab, he managed to snag the cord and hang on. He pulled against it as hard as he could—this thing is going to rip my head off\--until it burned his hand and he had to let go. Just then, on the verge of succumbing, the pendant slapped him in the face one last time, then fell limp around his neck.

Alex coughed and choked for a few minutes, spitting up blood, supporting himself by clinging to a vine while the wind surged through the trees. His neck ached and burned and he could already feel the angry red welts rising where the cord had scraped back and forth.

There was a loud crackle above him and Alex craned his neck to see what it was. Something was falling right for him--a branch, a whole tree, he couldn't quite make out the shape in the mist. He scrambled back up the bank, out of the clearing, out of the way, glancing up to see if it was still falling. He had almost made it to the edge of the trees, when the object crashed into him from behind. It was heavy, massive and he crumpled under its weight.

It was the lifeless body of Sam Burdette.

For one horror-stricken moment, Alex stared at the eyeless sockets, the purplish battered face with bones protruding at crazy angles from oozing gashes in the skin. Whether because of the impact of the fall or perhaps some earlier catastrophe, Sam's head was wrenched around backwards and the gray pulp of his shattered spinal column had split open the skin on the back of his neck. Alex gagged again, vomiting in the mud.

When he was through, and his throat burned like smoldering tar, he squirmed his way out from under the corpse and clambered up the slope as fast as he could. He slipped back into the woods, never looking back.

He had only one thing in mind when he finally stopped to rest ten minutes later. He leaned wearily against a tree, his eyes watery and nearly swollen shut. He was dizzy but nonetheless determined. He had to get back to the car. To Bette.

The next half hour lasted days: he would have sworn to that. He stumbled blindly through the woods, barely able to stand, hands probing ahead for something to hold on to and keep from falling. He knew that if he sat down, he would never get up again. He couldn't afford to stop, to let up, even to think much beyond getting back. If he slowed up, the voices would come again. And that ghastly putrid-smelling wind. The beast was after him again, he could feel it a few steps behind him, grunting, snickering, panting its awful loathsome breath and he dared not stop or it would fall upon him once more and this time, surely this time, it would devour him whole.

He wasn't paying attention to what his feet were doing and fell headlong down a soggy embankment into a ditch full of mud and garbage. His first thought was to lie there, to rest, maybe give in. How much longer could he fight? He had fallen into someone's sewer, just like that sewer behind Grandmother's house that hellish night he and Grace had defied Rita's warnings and gone stalking about in the drainpipes that went from the canal into the cellar. How clear the memory was. "The cellar is not for little boys and girls," Rita would tell them. ''Too cold, too damp, horrido, horrido, never ever go down there, little ones, or you might never come back."

Alex wondered.

To find out just what was down in that cellar, that Rita didn't want them to see, Alex and Grace had thought up a plan. Outside one afternoon, while they were kicking a ball back and forth, they had seen an iron grille in the backyard. Alex surmised that it covered a drainage pipe and that very possibly it led into the cellar. Grace was opposed to the idea (she was afraid of what Rita might do) but that night, as she knew she would, she found herself following her younger brother's steps as they left the house ("We're just going to walk along the canal, Mama.") and plodded across the wet grass of the backyard to the iron cover.

It was warm and humid and an awful smell of rats and decayed flesh wafted up out of the pipe. With a lot of hard work, they managed to slide the heavy plate a few feet, enough for them to squeeze through. Grace was terrified but when she saw that odd expression of calm anticipation on her brother's face, she couldn't help but follow.

The dark drainage basin was no place for the squeamish. Huge rats with glowing yellow eyes and long teeth thumped all around them. Pools of sewage and carrion slurped under their shoes. But they pressed on deeper, back toward the house.

Another iron plate, this one circular, barred their final entrance to the cellar. A shallow trough for sewage went under the door and as they stopped, watching the debris gurgle out, they heard a low growl on the other side.

That was when Grace screamed.

At that same moment, the growl began to evolve into a voice, something almost but not quite human. A hollow clanging started up, as if something metal was striking the plate.

And down in the trough at the foot of the door, a horribly mangled, blood-caked hand slowly inched its way out, groping, grasping, clutching for anything within reach.

There was no question that the hand belonged to whatever lay snarling on the other side of the door. It lunged for Grace's foot and missed, splashing sewage everywhere. Then it started splashing wildly, spraying crap all over them. When Alex stooped down to touch the hand, Grace shrieked, "DON'T TOUCH IT!"

And when the iron door began to rattle and seemed in danger of coming off its hinges, they fled from there as fast as they could scamper back through the pipe. Later, when they discussed the event, and swore each other to silence, Alex could not remember whether he had heard his name being whispered.

Alex dragged himself up out of the muck. Had he heard his name being whispered? He rubbed his eyes clear and blinked, trying to see where he was. The rain came pouring down the banks of the ditch in torrents.

Up ahead, yes? He raised up a little higher. His own car, half dissolved in the murky fog, was there, off the pavement, and looking as though it might slide into the ditch any second. His own car, thank God. He pulled himself to his feet and scrambled up the bank to the roadside. The wind beat his face and head and as he was running as fast as he could along the slick asphalt, he clearly heard above the roar of the wind his own hoarse and faltering voice played back to him, only changed somehow, lower, deeper, almost pleading.

((it's time to come home, perry, really it is--let me in now before it's too late))

But he paid no attention to it and finally reached the car door, wheezing and dizzy. He tried to yank it open, but it wouldn't budge and then he remembered telling Bette to keep the doors locked. He banged on the windows for a few seconds, and had a horrible thought waiting for a reply. What if they got her too? No, don't think that. Don't ever think that. He breathed a big sigh of relief when a hand began to appear, wiping the mist from the glass in short, quick circular motions, and soon after, the worried face of his wife pressed against the glass. When she saw it was him, she unlocked the door.

Alex pulled the door open and dived into the front seat. He slammed and locked the door behind him.

"Alex!" Bette was shocked at his appearance. "Alex, you're hurt." She tried to turn his head so she could examine the extent of his injuries, but he pushed her away and cranked the engine, nearly flooding it before it finally caught and gunned into life. "Not now. Bette. Just hang on."

"What's wrong? What's the matter?"

"We're getting out of here in a hurry." And he spun them around on the asphalt, nearly into the ditch on the other side before flooring it. The tires squealed as they shot ahead.

"Aren't we going to Edgelough?"

"Not today." said Alex. He fiddled with the defroster, trying to clear the windshield and when that didn't work fast enough, started rubbing the glass with the palm of his hand. "I can't see a damn thing."

"Slow down, will you? The road's slick. What's the big hurry anyway?"

For a moment, Alex didn't answer. Instead, he continued accelerating, skidding back and forth across the center lane. High winds gusted across the road and combined with their speed and the hydroplaning effect of the slippery asphalt, made steering difficult. He chewed at his lips, peering out at the gray rain-streaked road through a small spot on the windshield. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you...."

Bette decided she wasn't going to get a straight answer just yet. She stared at the swollen, bruised and bleeding face of her husband for awhile, then settled back in the seat, wondering. She stared at the windshield from then on and only occasionally did she risk a glance out of the corner of her eye. She was frightened and mad and confused and no longer knew what to think. There was going to be one hell of an explanation when they got home.

They sped back down a lonely stretch of U.S. 19, far too fast for conditions, and if anything, the thunderstorm gained in intensity. Fierce wind blasts rocked the car and the rain fell so hard that they had to plow a shallow canyon through the standing water. Alex struggled with the wheel, trying to stay on the road, while Bette clutched the side of the seat and screamed at him to slow down. But he paid no attention to her; only the road, only getting away occupied his mind.

There were times, rounding the curves on the road back to the Lake, that Bette was certain the gale would blow them over the edge and down into one of those picturesque gorges. She felt her mouth go dry and couldn't look out the front any longer. When the hail started falling, she closed her eyes and listened to the loud clattering of ice pellets on the roof. At least, the sound of the roaring wind was now obscured, though it continued to tear at the car with unabated fury.

Only once did she brave another look out the window. The flash of lightning was virtually continuous and above the din of hailstones, the deeper detonations of thunder could be felt, shaking the car as it skimmed along the highway. Between fat streams of water pouring down the side of the glass, she could see the trees in the woods racing by, all of them bent to the ground, whipping madly in unpredictable gusts. Even as she stared, the wind would gather itself into a furious vortex, no more than a few feet wide, and fling water and leaves and mud against the glass. Often. a great glob of it would splatter against the windshield and clog the wipers.

The sight of the old Sawyer mill works looming off in the foggy distance was one of the most welcome sights Bette had ever seen. Even Alex breathed a little easier as the road became more familiar and recognizable landmarks slipped by. He slowed down to something under sixty and soon after they had rounded the big sweeping turn that took them past the city limits sign and the big patch of wild blueberries on the other side, now nearly washed away, the rain began to let up and the wind slackened a good bit. Alex leaned back against the seat and flexed his shoulders--he had hunched forward over the wheel the whole way back, trying to see through a solid wall of water on the windshield.

They turned left at Rutledge Street and headed for home.

Alex pulled into the Tackaberrys' driveway and came up behind Eugene's Chevy Blazer. He cut the engine and just sat there, staring through the windshield, shaking every few seconds as if he had a bad hitch in his neck. For a minute, Bette did nothing. They were both drained.

At last, she could stand the silence no longer. "Honey, are you going to be all right?"

Alex shook his head slowly, sadly. "No. Not any more, Bette."

"Why not? What's wrong? What did you see out there?"

Alex sucked in a little air, then let it out carefully, in measured amounts. He swallowed audibly. "I think I know what's wrong with me now."

"You said before that I wouldn't believe you...

"I'm not sure I believe it myself. I guess I have to though." He looked right at her and Bette saw something in his eyes that she had never seen before--a dull black lifeless glint, more than just fatigue, more like defeat and acceptance.

"Are you going to tell me now?"

"Bette, I'm the one who's responsible for all the trouble the Lake has been having. I'm to blame. I have to face that now."
Chapter 20

1.

Dick Mosley sat thoughtfully at his desk in the police station, a cup of lukewarm coffee by his hand, reading a report on the city's miniscule budget for next year. Toni Ames was there too, filing papers in the big gray filing cabinet with the dent in the top drawer where Joe Burdette had once slung the crystal ball paperweight when he was mad. Mosley had asked her to come in today partly because she hadn't finished typing up the evidentiary reports he needed to send to the state capital and partly because he just wanted some company. He ought to have known better than to ask Toni Ames to come in on a Sunday.

"\--so like I was saying, Chief, Robert is a fine boy and I think he'll surely grow up to be a fine man, just like his Daddy and he is an attractive guy, at least I think so and I know Martha Ridley and some of the other girls think so too, but anyway, my little Leslie is only seven years old after all and that's just a bit too young for something like that to be going on. I mean it's okay when she's a few years older but not now, not with a boy, even if it is Robert. So I had to spank her, much as it hurt me, 'cause I know she'll be doing the very same thing in a few years and me and Walt will be just smiling and laughing at her and thinking how pretty she looks but you got to have timing, ain't that right, Chief?" Toni shut the file cabinet with a thump and slid back into her chair, where an electric typewriter still hummed, ready for her to finish the page she was working on.

Mosley looked up, taking a sip from the coffee. "What was that, Toni? I was reading something."

"I was telling you about Leslie and what I had to do when I caught her fooling around with that Robert Driggers down by the boat ramps at the lake. I was saying you got to have timing." She brushed her black bangs back, smacked some more on the chewing gum and smiled with satisfaction at the profundity of her analysis. "Ain't that right?"

''Oh, yeah," said Mosley. "Absolutely. No question about it. You did the right thing, spanking her."

"Darn right I did. Say, you want me to make another pot of coffee?"

Mosley looked up. "Huh?''

"Coffee, Chief. Do you want more?"

He waved at the cup. "Sure. Why not." He went back to his reading. Toni got up again and went over to the counter next to the water fountain, where she measured out some more instant. "Honestly, Chief, I don't know who you think you're trying to fool. I see you doodling over there. You're no more reading that dry old thing than I am Farah Fawcett-Majors. You got something on your mind this morning?" She poured some hot water into his cup and gave him a new plastic spoon (he had snapped the last one in two) and another jelly roll.

Mosley slurped the liquid and mumbled thanks. He set the cup down carefully next to a file folder Toni had gotten out for him. So far, he had managed to avoid opening it; he had dreaded it all morning long but it simply couldn't be put off any longer and his lips tightened perceptibly as he slid the folder in front of him and looked down at its buff-colored face. "Toni, I guess I just can't hide anything from you. Do you take lessons in mind-reading from that Madame Domino as well as fortune-telling?"

Toni smiled and sat down sideways in her swivel chair. "It isn't fortune-telling, Chief, it's astrology. And no, I haven't had the money to pay for lessons in mind-reading. I would if you gave me a raise though." She raised her eyebrows hopefully.

"I'll let you read this budget and answer that question for yourself."

"What's making that pretty forehead of yours pucker up so, Chief? You thinking about Greta Blanchard?''

He nodded and grudgingly opened the folder. "And Suzie Costa. And that foreign woman that visited the Perrys. You keeping a close eye on that little girl of yours?"

"I certainly am. That's why I spanked her for messing around with Robert Driggers. It could have just as easily been some stranger she wound up with. God knows what might have happened then."

Mosley remembered what Red Beavers had told him a few weeks before about the Mountainmen Pursuit Club. "How's that husband of yours?"

Toni shrugged and smoothed out the wrinkles in her pants. "What can I say? Walt's Walt. The man's gonna turn into a motor one of these days. He spends more time in the garage than he does with me. I got a mind to go over to Smitty's Perch or the Early Bird and start hunting myself."

"Speaking of hunting, does he do much of that anymore?''

"You mean with Joe Burdette and Louis Beems?"

"Yeah, them. Or anybody."

"They did a little last week, I think. Walt's not so keen on it as he used to be. Maybe he's getting old. About the only time he'll announce he's going hunting is when I tell him we got to go shopping for clothes. He hates that. I can even get him to do the yardwork by threatening him with that. Men are so silly that way.''

Mosley murmured something and set to work examining the contents of the folder. Toni chatted on by herself for awhile until she grew tired of the one-way conversation and went back to her typing. The steady clacking of the keys was somehow comforting to the Chief. It kept him from thinking too much about what he was looking at.

Three deaths. All in a week and all in a town of no more than a couple thousand people. Greta Blanchard impaled on Monday. Suzie Costa dismembered on Wednesday. Rita Donze decapitated on Saturday. Just your average ordinary week in the life of the Scotland Lake Police Department. Shit on that. At least the past week had been quiet. Except for the storm, that is.

If there was a pattern to the deaths, Dick Mosley did not see it. All were unsolved, without apparent motives, with few real clues. Of course, something might come back from the State Crime Lab in Raleigh, but then again, it might not. There wasn't any reason to expect solid clues anyway; there hadn't been any during the Blood Years. Mosley remembered well the frustration of that time; he had just come to the job, fresh out of Louisville (and the less said about that the better) and he was eager to prove himself, to get back at least in his own mind the feeling that he was a police officer and that police officers solve crimes, not cause them. Not a single one of those deaths had ever been solved. After a few years, they had all been explained away as freak accidents.

But Dick Mosley knew that wasn't so.

There had never been any doubt in his mind that Joe Burdette and the Mountainmen Pursuit Club were behind most if not all of the deaths. The problem was proof. And motive. He had known Joe and Sam Burdette for going on fifteen years now and Joe was still as impenetrable and unfathomable as that cement wall. The man had a mean streak, that much was obvious, even to a total stranger. Hell, even Sam would admit that; he had suffered enough because of it. But there had to be more. He had tried to figure out Joe by going through Sam, drawing the Mayor out about their past, their gripes and bitches, their quirks and idiosyncrasies and peculiar thoughts. But it had been like trying to thread a needle at the bottom of a mud pile. In his own way, Sam was wary of Joe as anybody and it wasn't often that he could be persuaded to relate anything of interest. Some of what he knew about the Burdettes he had gotten from Greta Blanchard; her family had known them from the first day they showed up in the Lake, looking for work and a place to stay. But it wasn't very much, a few opinions, some useful background and that was about all. The most characteristic story was the tale of how, when he had been dating Hannah Morgan during the War and some of the other boys in town had started to calling her the "Nazi Princess", Joe had retaliated against one of them, Joey Dewitt, by pouring gasoline over the firewood stacked in the Dewitts' backyard. The ensuing explosion nearly killed Joey's mother.

Dick Mosley had looked everywhere and racked his brains for hours trying to find a way to pin the three deaths on Joe Burdette. From what Red had said, the Mountainmen were active again and that could only mean more trouble for the town. He wondered just what he would do if a solid piece of evidence against Joe did turn up. Don't eat the bacon before it's cooked now. It would take a lot of thinking and scheming to trap a fellow as cagey as Joe. But it could be done and the more Dick Mosley thought about it, the more he liked the idea. After all, hadn't Pittsburgh Pete McLain done it to him? And so easily. You go where your nose takes you. The way to tackle a guy like Joe Burdette was to stay three steps ahead of him. And be twice as cruel. A threat like he had read in the crushed face of his own deputy Pete Porter could work both ways. The very idea of taking the offensive made Mosley feel better. He pushed the folder away and got up.

The front door opened while he was over at the file cabinet. Alex Perry stepped inside and shut the door behind him. He was solemn and pale and he didn't say anything. He walked past Toni and went directly for the chair on the other side of Mosley's desk. There, he sat down and stared at the floor.

"Something I can do for you, Alex?" Mosley shut the cabinet drawer and came over to the desk. He saw how white the man's knuckles were; he was rubbing his hands nervously.

"I've got to talk to you for a second."

"Sure thing." Mosley settled himself into his squeaky chair. "What's on your mind?"

Alex cleared his throat and glanced at Toni. He looked back questioningly at the Chief for a minute until Mosley understood what he wanted.

"Uh, Toni, would you do something for me? Go over to the Waffle House and ask Viola if she won't fix me a ham sandwich. And something for Mr. Perry here too--what would you like, Alex?"

"Nothing, thanks." His voice was thick.

"Right now?" asked Toni. "It's not even eleven o'clock yet."

"Well, you know how busy Viola gets at lunch time. Go on. It'll only take you a minute."

She left, reluctantly, and only after giving Mosley a dirty look. The Chief paid her no attention. When she was gone, he leaned forward on his desk. "You want to tell me what this is about?"

"Sam Burdette is dead."

"What? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Just what I said. I saw his body yesterday afternoon, in the woods alongside U.S. 19. Bette and I were on our way to Edgelough."

Mosley sank back thoughtfully in his chair. "What happened? You sure it was Sam?"

Alex was fiddling glumly with a loose piece of thread on the armrest. "I'm sure." He related the story of what had happened on their trip the day before.

Through it all, Alex could see that Dick Mosley didn't want to believe it. He said nothing but it was clear enough the last thing on earth the man wanted now was yet another murder in his town. He ran his fingers through his black hair and expelled a weary sigh when Alex finished. For several minutes afterward, he doodled aimlessly on his blotter. "And none of this is made up? You actually saw the body...beat up like that?"

"It was him," Alex said. "If you don't believe me, give Sam a call. See if he answers."

Mosley snatched up the phone. "I think I'll do that. I'm not doubting what you say, Alex, but I got to be sure. I mean--Jesus Christ, Sam dead. Sam Burdette? Things like that just don't happen." He dialed the number and let it ring for a long time. Alex could hear the dial tone. With each additional buzz, Mosley's eyes grew narrower. After about ten rings, he replaced the phone in its cradle, holding the receiver carefully with two fingers, as if it might bite him. "No answer," he muttered. Impatiently, he drummed his fingers on the face of the instrument. "Could you tell what might have killed him?"

Alex shrugged. "Something vicious. Something extremely strong."

"God, this is hard to believe. I can't feature—look, would you mind showing me about where you saw him? On that map over there."

There was a big relief map of the area on the wall behind a beat-up credenza. Alex leaned over and ran his finger along the line indicating the highway. "We weren't more than ten minutes out of town. I remember that ridge. And a Bryson City sign. Somewhere about there." He circled the area and tapped it. "Back in the woods, the ground slopes pretty sharply. Down to Reedy Creek, I guess. That must have been the stream I nearly fell into."

They were interrupted by a commotion at the door. There was some loud swearing and the door flew open. In came Toni Ames, several boxes in her arms. Her face was ashen and she practically ran over to her desk, where she dropped the lunches, spilling one box on the typewriter. She stood there, hands at her mouth, speechless, gesturing numbly at the door she had left open. Curious, Mosley went over to see. But someone kicked at the door to keep it from shutting. Joe Burdette staggered into the office.

In his arms, he carried the limp and battered body of Sam Burdette.

Wordlessly, Joe lurched back and forth under his burden until he spotted the couch on the other side of the credenza. He took the body over there and laid it sitting up on one side. Sam's face was pulped and crushed, so that no recognizable features remained. His head hung down at a sickening angle and his chest was caved in, a mass of purplish meat and sinew, still oozing fluid down the front of his torn rain slicker. As soon as Joe let go, his brother lolled against the arm of the couch and nearly slid off onto the floor.

Toni Ames fainted.

Alex was at her side in a second. She moaned and her eyes flickered open and shut. A bubble of spittle appeared at the corner of her mouth as she tried to sit up.

Joe turned around from fixing up his brother so he wouldn't fall off the couch and glared at both of them. "That man killed my brother, Chief." His stubby finger jabbed at the air.

"Now, Joe, there ain't no use to accusing just yet. You got no proof. We'll find out who did this."

Something angry and vicious gurgled in the back of Joe's throat. In the pale fluorescent lighting of the office, his stubbly face was cold and hard. The big red wart over his left eye seemed larger than ever, quivering as though it were alive and might, at any moment, burst open. His eyes bored into Alex. "I know what scum did this to my poor brother. It was him and I want him arrested right now. The man's a monster and he's dangerous. You been nothing but trouble since you showed up a year ago, son."

"Joe, that ain't going to--"

"I don't give a goddamn in Hell's front yard what you think, Mosley! He murdered my brother just like he murdered all those other people and he's gonna pay for it. If I can't get no justice here, I'll do it homegrown."

Alex stood up, helping Toni as he rose. She wobbled a little and grimaced at the furry taste in her mouth. She rubbed the back of her head where she had struck the typing table falling and faltered groping for the door to the hall where the restrooms were. Alex led her through and when he was sure she would make it, released her and went back to the office. Joe never took his eyes off him.

"Joe, I didn't kill your brother. You know that."

The faintest sneer came to Joe's face. "You didn't? Then I suppose he did this clipping his fingernails. You think I'm a jerk or something? I got eyes. I know what you are, Alex Perry. You can't hide any longer. And I'll tell you one thing, my friend, I'm gonna see to it you wished to God you'd never laid eyes on the town of Scotland Lake."

Mosley tried to intervene. "Joe, have you got any proof? Anything you can show me?"

"I don't need no damn proof, you idiot! Who else could it be? I'll bet if you go over right now and look in his basement, you'll find all kind of corpses."

Alex spread his hands helplessly. "Joe, please believe me, I didn't do it. I was just as shocked as you. In fact, I'm the one who discovered the body."

Mosley grunted uncomfortably as the corpse slid down again. "Boys, why don't we get that thing down to Ed Beeson, where it belongs.''

Joe wasn't listening. "This town's suffered enough because of you.''

"You can't really think I'm responsible--why would I do something like that? Be reasonable, Joe. It was a bear. Or some drunk from the Early Bird. Something like that."

"IT WAS YOU!" yelled Joe. The veins on his neck stood out. He took a step toward Alex but halted when Mosley shot up out of his chair. "You and Stocker and that Yankee builder Howard Meridian killed him! Bringing bullydozers in here like you owned the damn place! Cutting up our land and driving away the deer and beaver! These were fine and wise old hills before you and your type showed up and started digging 'em up. I had just about all of this I'm gonna take. Somebody's got to stick up for what's right. And every time they do," he jerked his thumb at his dead brother, "that's what they get." His face darkened. ''But no more. There's things about this land and these hills you won't ever know, Mr. Perry. Not in a million years. They're a lot smarter than you and if you don't watch your step, they gone get their revenge. One way or the other. You listen real good to what I'm saying. It's for your own good. You got a pretty wife and a nice pair of kids. Most everybody thinks so, anyway. I surely don't think you'd want to have them around when these old hills start to wake up and see what's being done to them. It's best to pack up and get out now, while you can. Otherwise...."

The threat made Alex mad. "This is my home too. Joe. I plan to stay here a long time."

His words made Joe so angry that he lunged for Alex and only Mosley's quick maneuver prevented a fight. He grabbed Joe around the collar and forced him back. For a moment, he thought Joe might bury a fist in his face. He glared wildly at both of them, shaking with rage. Mosley grappled him about the shoulders and held on. The man was like a bull.

"You been warned, you stupid sonofabitch! I'm not gonna be responsible for what happens next!" He ripped himself free of Mosley's grip.

"Alex, you better leave," said the Chief. He put a firm hand on Joe's shoulder until he was sure he had him calmed down. He didn't much relish the thought of trying to take on someone that powerful. "Go on home and I'll talk to you later."

"Whatever you say." Alex shook his head. He went to the door and opened it. "I'm sorry about your brother, Joe. But it wasn't me. I swear it." He didn't wait for a reply.

''There's gonna be a reckoning," Joe said, after he had left. "Sure as I'm standing here, there's gonna be a reckoning. Ain't no one gonna stand up for what's right if I don't. You know that, Chief? You understand what I'm telling you? His kind are very shortly going to be extinct from these hills. That's the only way things will ever get back to normal around here."

Dick Mosley let go of his shoulder. Suddenly, he didn't want to be within a million miles of Joe Burdette. He went over to the water fountain and got himself a drink. It was lukewarm and he frowned at his reflection in the steel catch basin. "Don't talk like that to me, Joe," he muttered to himself. He drank some more.

2.

Rodrigo Donze had been piloting the dark blue Dodge van along I-16 for hours, completely oblivious to his surroundings. Traffic was light for a Sunday afternoon, unusually so since it was customary for the inland residents of the South to make the Labor Day weekend their last pilgrimage to the beach for the season. Capt. Donze had been paying little attention to the signs flying by and he was startled to read that Macon lay only thirty miles ahead. He shook himself out of the reverie with a rueful smile. It seemed like only five minutes had passed since he had noticed a Starvin' Marvin off the Dublin exit.

He seldom ventured away from the coast more than a few dozen miles anymore and he found the rolling terrain, thickly wooded with yellow pine and red oak, somewhat alien. But then he had seldom had such an incredible story to relate. What he had read out of his niece's diary a few days before was enough to scare the fillings out of any man. He had the distinct feeling that the people holding Rita's body would find what he was going to tell them most interesting.

Whether or not they believed it was another matter.

Donze took off his sunglasses and spit on them, rubbing it in with a Kleenex. He slowed a little, behind a lumbering dump truck carrying a load of gravel and waited for a big tractor-trailer to pass so he could pull out and around. Much to his dismay, the eighteen-wheeler pulled up abreast of the dump truck and slowed down itself. The drivers seemed to know each other and, as Donze looked on in exasperation, they yelled and gestured at each other for several minutes, pointedly ignoring the long blasts from his horn. He showed them his finger and then settled back to await the end of the conversation.

There was an old battered black radio on the seat next to Donze and he reached down and patted its peeling plastic top. It was a good luck token of sorts and he carried it everywhere he went, bulky as it was. It occupied a prize place in the deckhouse of the River Princess, right there on the fold-out tray where he kept his tide and current charts. It went home with him in the pick-up. It even sat on the nightstand next to his bed every night, an old soldier faithful to the very end of its life. Capt. Donze would not have gone anywhere without that ancient British-made wireless, not for, all the catfish stew and bourbon in the world. The reason was that it had once saved his life.

He had encountered many storms at sea in nearly half a century of boating but none with that peculiar combination of ferocity and endurance that so characterized the great hurricane of July 1947. It had splintered the fishing trawler he had been skippering at the time, the Petion (she was stout but cantankerous and he hadn't been overly distraught at losing her, other than for the $62,000 he'd shelled out in Havana). That was one night he wouldn't soon forget, floating on a rotten spar somewhere off the Isle of Pines, lashed for hours on end by savage winds, waterspouts, towering waves. His arms and shoulders ached to the bone and with each new wave that thundered down on top of him, he was more and more certain that he could not hold on any longer. Somehow, he had though. and from then on, he was as certain as a man could be that the storm was the doing of Agou'e, the voodoo lord, or loa, of the sea. When his own radio, torn from the pilot house of the Petion by the impact of the waterspout, came drifting, by the following morning, perched like a black bird on top of some planking, Donze knew that fate and Agou'e had marked him for the rest of his life. He snatched hold of that radio as it was drifting by and before he had tuned in the frequency of a pleasure yacht several miles over the horizon, he had suffered the fright of his life. The radio talked to him. Not in the faint, static, crackling tones of a normal radio but in a different voice. Deeper, quieter, more resonant, a hypnotic whisper crooning out words of warning in between the bursts of static, in a language he had never heard before. The language of his grandfather, the language of his ancestors. The language, so it had turned out, of the river boatmen who had once poled their way along the snake-infested shallows of the brackish Gambia River, in West Africa centuries before. And he had listened, captivated by that doleful chant, knowing deep down in the core of his shaking heart, that it was he they were mourning, he they were turning over to the loa of the forest, he who had passed through the cataracts of Yarboutenda to the distant, forbidden, unearthly realm of the spirit people.

From that hot windy day in the mid-summer of 1947, Rodrigo Donze had known full well that he was destined to meet his end at sea. That Agou'e could not be placated except by his destruction there. And ever since, the radio had talked to him, though the crystal inside had never been replaced. Agou'e still called, chanting that grievous lament, whispering to him that the time was drawing near, that he must put to sea and be at long last re-born into the circle of the loa he had so thoughtlessly cheated many years before. Donze knew that this was the way it must happen.

Still, ever since reading the story of Rita's diary, he could not quite put from his mind the feeling that perhaps Agou'e had now come ashore, that he had taken earthly form and now stalked the continents of Earth for new victims. It seemed unlikely that one loa would invade the domain of another but who could fathom the workings of such a mind? If such was the case, then he would have to take extreme precautions upon entering this Scotland Lake his niece had spoken of. If Agou'e was present, he would surely know of Donze's arrival.

The gravel truck swerved abruptly ahead of him and Donze didn't have time to react. He slammed on the brakes but not in time. The truck skidded and sprang its load of rock. The van's brakes locked and just as it was about to impact, a rain of gravel came pouring out the back of the truck, right through the windshield.

Donze hauled the wheel around and ran the van off the highway into a shallow gully. It nearly flipped in the soft dirt but eventually came to a rest on the shoulder, precariously balanced on its two right-side wheels. The dump truck had straightened out its spin and continued down the road. Donze sat stunned in the cab for a few seconds, pieces of glass and rock strewn in his lap and all about the seat. Several trickles of blood streamed down his face and arms, but otherwise, he was unhurt.

He took a deep breath and climbed out. A quick check of the suspension convinced him that the van wouldn't be going anywhere for awhile. He reached back into the cab and opened the glove compartment, pulling out an oily rag he sometimes used for checking the oil. With it, he wiped himself clean of dirt and blood and tried to pick what fragments of glass he could out of his skin. He'd have to shower to get them all.

Donze looked up at the sky. The sun was just past zenith; it was early afternoon and he was growing hot and hungry. He wasn't sure how far up the road the next exit was but there wasn't any point in hanging around the van. He'd need help getting that suspension fixed. He retrieved the satchel containing Rita's diary and collected his money from the places he had stashed it: under the floor mat, inside the lining of the visor, rolled up in the cigarette lighter case. He'd have to hitchhike to the nearest exit. He took one last look at the shattered windshield. The old man was lucky today. Then he hoisted up the old radio and set off down the road.

An hour or so later, a hot, dusty, sweat-soaked Rodrigo Donze was on the phone to Scotland Lake from a Gulf station beside the freeway. The little booth was stifling--what other station would still have telephone booths--and he left the door cracked to get some air. After a few minutes of calling, he managed to connect with the Chief of Police, a Mr. Dick Mosley.

He told Mosley of the accident. It would take the station several days to assemble all the parts necessary to repair the tie rod and control arms that had been damaged. He would be spending that time in a motel--the Plantation Oaks, just behind the station--and would make Scotland Lake as soon as he could. Mosley seemed annoyed by the delay but promised to inform the Perrys of what had happened. Donze didn't tell him about the diary. There was no point in it. The man wouldn't have believed it anyway. He hung up.

His stomach rumbled as he stepped out of the booth. He hadn't eaten anything since well before sun-up and the neon steer flashing on and off above the Plantation Oaks' Road Rally Restaurant looked awfully good. Maybe a little seafood....

He hadn't taken more than five steps from the telephone booth before his face was struck by a brisk gust of briny, salt-laden sea air. Donze stopped short and looked around. What the hell? He was standing on firm, hard-packed, red clay ground two hundred miles from any ocean, yet the odor was as sharp and distinct as if he had been sitting in the beacon room of the lighthouse at Tybee Island. He looked up at the sky. The clouds were hazy, patchy, typical late summer clouds. Nothing unusual there. But once again, the pungent smell of sea spray came to his nose, this time stronger than ever.

Rodrigo Donze did not have his old radio handy at the moment but he didn't need it. He could hear it in his mind just as well. The peevish whisper of Agou'e was firmly rooted in his memory. He fiddled nervously with the bracelets full of nautical chains and tokens that he always wore on his wrists and tried hard, very hard, not to see that ghastly, black reptilian thing slipping through the waves toward him once again, its great wet flukes beating the seawater to a froth as it bore down on the helpless human being clinging to a broken spar.
Chapter 21

1.

Monday morning came to the Lake as a fine, bright late-summer day. The air was clean and sharp, with no hint of the fog that usually settled about the tops of the mountains. There was an earthy dampness in the ground, the result of the heavy rains the town had sustained the last week or so. Small puddles still lay quietly in dark out of the way places, not yet evaporated by the bright sunlight. In the turbid waters of the lake itself, the schools of bream and bass sensed the changing contours of temperature and nutrient and altered their ways to take advantage of the season's temporary bounty.

For Bette Perry, Monday morning also brought change.

She had made up her mind over the weekend and there wasn't any way she was going to back out of her decision now. The aborted ride over to Edgelough, the freak thunderstorm, Alex's discovery of Sam Burdette's body, Joe's threats, it was all more than enough. She had been edging toward this decision for some time now and the events of the weekend had only cemented her resolve to do something.

If they didn't get out while they could, God alone knew where the next tragedy might strike. You didn't have to be a psychic or study the Tarot like Toni Ames to know that the thing that was stalking Scotland Lake was getting closer with each and every strike. Who would be next? It was a question that Bette had tried to keep from surfacing but it wouldn't quit. Perhaps Marcy, or Jimmy? Alex, maybe? Me? There wasn't any point in waiting for it; death seemed to find the Lake with hideous regularity. And it wasn't just death, either. It was the way Greta had died, the way Suzie Costa had been killed, the full-blooded, nauseating, stinking horror of how Rita Donze had been decapitated and dismembered right there in their own home, just hours after the woman had so enchanted Marcy and Jimmy with her strange and wondrous tales. That was what had upset her so, the unnerving feeling that the evil was closing in, that she couldn't escape, that they were all trapped. At night, when she lay awake to the rhythmic snoring of her husband, she thought she could even taste the cold, scaly outlines of the thing settling in, surrounding them, the barest tickling of a feeling that they were not alone in that shadowy bedroom, that there was an indistinct whisper in the air, a vague odor she couldn't identify, an essence that she couldn't root out no matter how hard she tried. It was in those hushed, heart-pounding moments, when even the rustling of her own breaths startled her, that she began to question the limits of her own sanity and knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that it was time, way past time, to flee before it was too late.

So she had made up her mind over the weekend and now she was going to do it. She was going over to the Mountain National Bank this very morning and close out their account and withdraw their money. Later that day, she was going to present Alex with this fait accompli and use it as a tool, to persuade him of the conclusions she had reached. What they had to do to save themselves and the children was clear and simple. There was no point in putting it off any longer.

The front porch of the Trimble Hotel was crowded as usual with sleepy residents settling down in their wicker chairs to chat. A few nursed Bloody Mary's and stared stupidly at her as she walked the sidewalk under the shade of the willow trees in front, heading for the modernistic glass and concrete cube of the bank on the other side of the parking lot. Some of them rocked slowly, engrossed in their crossword puzzles. Others lolled lazily in their seats, their toothless mouths agape as they snored, or shambled slowly down the steps to the card tables under the trees, eyeing Bette warily as she passed by.

One card player, a gangly white-haired man who went by the name of Earl, spied Bette from his perch by the edge of the sidewalk and stood up awkwardly as she approached, bowing slightly. He coughed up some phlegm and spat it out, then said, "Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma'am. How's about a little canasta? You can sit in my lap, too." He winked.

Bette tried to ignore him and mumbled, "No thanks.''

But Earl ambled right out in front of her and blocked her way. "Why'ntcha be nice to an old fart, for a change? I still got some spark in my motor." He cupped his hand under her chin and squeezed affectionately. "Bet you do too."

Bette slapped his arm away. "Mister, please!" She slipped around him easily and walked quickly on, only once turning back to glare. Earl laughed harshly, coughed some more and went back to his table. "We kin play somethin' besides canasta, if you want." He chuckled at himself and cut the deck with the smooth motion of a practiced dealer.

The flag outside the bank had been lowered to half-mast to pay respects to Sam Burdette, who was due to be buried that afternoon. Inside, the beige-carpeted main room looked like a morgue. Black crepe streamers were hung over the tables in the center and along the counter, around the office doors and even through the railing around the vault, at the moment, wide open. Bette stopped in the doorway and looked around. All eyes were momentarily on her and she shuddered at the glares. They're blaming Alex for what happened to Sam. She tried her best to stare back. Eventually, the bank's customers resumed their business. But the low murmur she had heard upon first entering had now stopped.

Bette was grateful when she saw a familiar face, over by one table, filling out some forms. It was Jasmine Stocker, dressed in a long-sleeved blouse (still got those nasty burn scars, Bette thought) and a snug denim skirt. She looked up and grinned when Bette came by.

"Well, Mrs. Perry, what an unexpected surprise. Haven't seen you around here in ages. What brings you to the bank today?"

Bette faked a smile and rubbed her arms. "It's somber in here, isn't it? I'm surprised the bank isn't closed."

Jasmine nodded. "I know what you mean. But Mr. Lucas, the vice-president, said they were going to stay open; he said that's what Sam would have wanted. A capitalist right into the grave. They are going to have a short prayer service here this afternoon though. Reverend Stearns, I think."

"It was a terrible thing."

"Look, honey, I saw the way everybody looked at you when you came in. I want you to know that I certainly don't feel that way. It must have been horrible, what you and Alex went through, with Sam and that lady who visited you. How's he taking it?"

"Oh, pretty well," Bette said brightly. She hoped Jasmine couldn't see through her smile. "I can't complain."

Jasmine reached over and brushed a lock of hair from Bette's cheek with her fingers. "If you don't mind my saying so, you don't look so hot. You been sleeping poorly lately?"

"Is it that obvious?" Bette smiled again. then quit it, shaking her head. "I can't do it, Jas. I just can't."

"Do what, honey?"

"Pretend that everything is all right." She reached down and grabbed Jasmine's hands. "I'm scared. I'm sorry but I am. Alex thinks it's silly but I can't help it."

Jasmine patted her hands. "You're not the only one. But I think I've got the perfect cure for goosebumps."

"What's that?"

"You and Alex are invited to Ray's annual Nicoll's Island end-of-the-tourist-season-and-probably-the-world closing down party. We're shutting down the park for the year next weekend and we always have a party after its done. You two have got to come. Everybody will be there."

Bette released her hands and said. ''Sounds great. When and where?"

"The picnic grounds on the north island, right next to the petting zoo. We can throw bread crumbs to the peacock and get the goats drunk. That's what usually happens. It's at eight."

"I'll twist Alex's arm and threaten to leave him if he refuses."

"Good, be subtle like that. Men appreciate it." They both laughed, drawing a few stares from the other customers. The humor quickly faded. "You feel better now?"

Bette smiled faintly. "Not at all. How about you?"

"I'm worse than ever. Come on, let's get in line."

They finished their forms at the table and took up positions in the queue in front of Mrs. Gardiner, the senior teller. She squinted at them over the top of the frosted glass like a schoolteacher about to scold someone. Two people were in the line ahead of them.

Bette fidgeted, with her mind no longer distracted from the reason for her visit to the bank. Jasmine tried not to notice but after a few minutes, she laid a hand on Bette's shoulders and muttered, "Girl, you are a case. You planning on robbing the bank today?"

Bette shook her head quickly. She glanced down at the worn spot on the carpet where she had been standing. "I guess I could use a drink."

"You mean like those dinosaurs in front of the hotel? What you need. honey, is a long vacation."

Bette looked at her sharply. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that's why I'm here today. Ray and I have been doing a little feuding about whether or not to sell the Island. If you want to know the truth, it's making life a little brittle on the home front. I'm taking him on a long trip through the azure waters of the Caribbean so we can avoid bloodshed. You ought to try it."

Bette swallowed hard and fingered the papers in her hands until they were crumpled. "Jas, I've got a confession to make."

"Don't tell me: you've killed the Pope and want me to pray for you."

"Jasmine, please, I'm serious."

"So I see. I'm listening."

"I came to the bank today to take out all our money. We're going to be leaving Scotland Lake."

Jasmine's face quickly clouded. She pulled Bette out of the line and over to a corner. "What did you say?"

Bette looked at the crumpled withdrawal slips in her hands. "I'm afraid it's true. I'm sorry, Jas."

"You can't be serious, Bette. You've only lived here a year. And that big house of yours--there's so much to do." She cocked her head. "Have you been talking to Jeanne Costa?"

Bette nodded. "We've discussed it."

"Well no wonder. You talked each other into it." Jasmine bit her fingernails and looked around the room. Again, they were attracting the curious stares of other customers. Her forehead wrinkled. "I don't know what to say."

''You don't have to say anything."

"Yes, I do. Shoot, Bette, I know how you feel. It's been a bad summer for all of us. But you just can't move now. How on earth would I make it through the day? You and Jeanne are about the only decent girls left around here." She put a hand firmly on Bette's shoulder. "What does Alex think about this?"

"He doesn't know yet.'' Bette smiled a little sheepishly. "I thought I could persuade him this way, by getting all our money out. At least, he'd know I was serious.''

"Bette, look. Listen to me. Before you do anything rash, why don't you give it a few days? A few weeks. This won't solve anything."

"It may save our lives."

`'Baloney. And you know it. You can get it anywhere. There's no place on this planet you'll ever be completely safe. We've got to stick together in this town and not give up the ship to the gangsters. Someone is just trying to scare everybody off. It's probably Joe Burdette and his kind; Lord knows they've got some cockeyed ideas. But we're going to resist, Bette, and I mean you too. We're going to fight back. This is our town too. I know how jumpy and edgy you've been lately; I've been the same way. But we're just gonna have to grit our teeth and hang on. Show 'em we don't scare."

Bette licked her lips nervously. She wadded the papers in her hand into a ball. "I don't know, Jasmine. I don't know what to do. Marcy's having nightmares. It's gotten where I'm afraid to take the garbage out at night. We can't just go on living like that--afraid of our own shadows."

"I know it, honey, you're absolutely right. But we're gonna do something about it. We're gonna get behind Dick Mosley and help him solve these crimes. Okay?''

Bette didn't answer.

"Look, promise me one thing. Will you do that much?"

Bette nodded.

"Don't do anything for now. Stick around. At least through the party. We'll talk about it some more then."

"Jas, why do you have to make such good sense?"

She chuckled. "When you live with my husband, sweetie, you better know how to read a balance sheet."

"I want you to know that I'm still going to take our money out. At least for now. It'll make me feel better."

Jasmine shrugged and squeezed her shoulder affectionately. "Just don't leave it where I might get to it. If I knew you two had that much bread stashed away, I might take up crime myself."

They laughed nervously and got back into the line for Mrs. Gardiner's booth. Both of them pointedly ignored the stares and whispers of the others.

2.

There was only a light crowd at the Moonlight Cafe that Monday night when Dick Mosley pushed open the door and stepped in. The old drugstore diner had been converted by Alex Perry into something approximately resembling a patio deep in the woods. The floor was no longer the grimy linoleum he once remembered, but now was covered with wooden planks that squeaked agreeably as you walked across them. There were ten or so alcoves situated about the room, each one a table surrounded by a trellis-full of vines and flowers and other greenery, softly lit by candles. The tables were small but the seats were not--they were the most comfortable things Dick Mosley had ever sat in--great big captain's chairs that swiveled and leaned up and down. He'd been meaning for a long time to ask Alex where he had gotten them. A chair like that would surely make those long numbing hours at the police station a lot more pleasant.

The food didn't measure up to the decor but it wasn't all bad. The Cafe specialized in sandwiches and a good two thirds of the menu was devoted to such things as Reubens, club sand- wiches, poor boys and the like. There were soups as well and a few steak and seafood dishes, though Mosley had never forgiven himself for trying the shrimp one night. After trying to eat it, he'd given serious thought to visiting the kitchen in the back and seeing if maybe they weren't really using sawdust for batter. It had soured him on seafood for months afterward.

But Dick Mosley had not come to the Moonlight Cafe this night to eat. Food was the last thing on his mind.

He had come to ask a favor of Hannah Burdette, who worked several days a week in the kitchen, supervising certain deli creations.

Mosley shut the door and waited for Sue Kemmons to glide over.

''Evening, Chief. Will it be just you tonight?" She extracted a menu from the rack next to the cash register.

"Just me."

"The usual place?"

"That'll be fine."

She led him around the periphery of the room, through a bower of aromatic blossoms surrounding the salad bar and over to his favorite table halfway along the far wall. The double doors to the kitchen were only a few feet away.

"There. How's that?"

"Fine, thanks, Sue." She started to leave but Mosley called her back. "Sue, could I ask you something?''

"Sure."

"Is Mrs. Burdette in the kitchen tonight?''

She nodded and lowered her voice, bending over to make herself heard. "She said she didn't want to mope around the house after Sam's funeral. Poor woman. She looks terrible. Mr. Perry tried to talk her into going home but she wouldn't hear of it. 'Tonight, I must cook. My hands must not be still.' That's how she put it. I feel so sorry for her. She's been in a daze all night."

Mosley tugged thoughtfully at his lower lip. "I see.''

''Would you like something before dinner? A drink or something?"

"Hmmm? Oh, no thanks. I'll just take a turkey on rye with mustard and everything."

Sue scribbled the order down on her pad, then stuck the pencil behind her ear. "Got it. Want some coffee now?"

Mosley was already studying the white tile walls in the kitchen through the little porthole in the double doors. "Please, if you don't mind."

"Be back in a snap." She shuffled off to get another order.

A minute later, Mosley was sipping coffee from a steaming cup. He continued to stare at the kitchen doors, especially when one of the busboys came bursting through and he was able to get a better look inside. He never did see Hannah and he wondered. Am I doing the right thing? It was a long shot. He slurped some more coffee and made up his mind.

Mosley got up and sauntered over to the doors. No one was watching him so he pushed them open and went through. Inside, the kitchen was steel and tile, brilliant white after the dark of the lobby and main room. Mosley squinted around until he saw her, over by a big wooden chopping block. She was slicing up salami.

"Hello, there," He called out to her, but she hadn't heard him. There was a radio going, playing something of Merle Haggard's, and with that and the sounds of steaks sizzling and something else frying, it was pretty noisy. Mosley ducked his head, almost hitting the edge of a cabinet and eased around to the chopping block. Still, she hadn't seen him.

She was a stout, sturdy woman, big-boned with a gray bun of hair and a sagging chin. Not exactly Miss America. She did have clear bright blue eyes, though, and a snorting kind of laugh that was funny in itself, on those rare occasions when she did laugh. Now that he thought about it, Dick Mosley could not recollect how long it had been since he'd seen her laugh. It wasn't part of his memory at all.

He waved at her from the other side of the big oven and she finally noticed him. She had a slight gap between two of her front teeth and said something he didn't hear. When he shrugged and pointed to his ears, she nodded her understanding and went hunting for the radio. A few seconds later, Merle Haggard grumbled off into silence.

"Nice to see you again, Chief Mosley," she said. She wiped her hands on her checkered apron and then daubed some sweat from her face. "Is there something wrong with your sandwich?"

"Oh, no." Mosley replied. "I haven't even eaten it yet."

She clucked reproachfully at him, wagging her finger. "It'll be cold when you do. Then you won't be so kind to me."

"I'm sure it'll be fine. Mrs. Burdette. To tell you the truth, I really came back here to ask you a favor."

"A favor, my goodness. What would the Chief of Police want with someone like me?" She went back to her slicing, her hands deftly shearing paper-thin sections of salami from a big chunk.

"Well, Mrs. Burdette. I suppose I ought to just go ahead and blurt it out."

"It's always best to be honest."

"I came to talk to you about your husband." He had been curious as to what kind of reaction that admission would produce. For the briefest second, he thought she hesitated in her slicing, the knife poised just above the meat, but it might have been his imagination. She didn't seem outwardly tense but the more he looked, the more he thought that maybe, just possibly, there was a stiffness in her movements, as if she were expecting to receive a hard blow and wanted to steel herself to it.

"Joe? What could I tell you about Joe?"

"Mrs. Burdette...Hannah...I'm terribly sorry about what happened to Sam. It was a great tragedy. I shouldn't even be bothering you at a time like this."

"Nonsense. We have to be strong about things like this, don't we?"

"Yes. You're right about that." Mosley licked his lips and watched the knife. "That's why I mentioned your husband. You know that he came down to the station with the body and accused Alex Perry of murdering Sam."

"I'm not surprised."

''Surprised at what?''

"That he would do that."

"Then you don't think Mr. Perry did it?"

"Oh, I couldn't say about that, Chief Mosley. I'm sure that's better handled by someone like you."

"But you knew Joe had made that accusation?"

"Yes."

"And you know that he's been rather upset about this—not that he shouldn't be. I well understand his feelings--but you know that's he's been rather rash and, well, inflammatory in things he's said, both in my presence and in front of Mr. Perry."

Hannah stopped shaving the salami and carefully laid the knife down next to the sliced pieces. She looked at Mosley with a blank expression. "Mr. Mosley, Joe says a lot of things. What exactly are you referring to?"

It was hot in the kitchen and Mosley fingered some sweat from his lips. "Mrs. Burdette, to be frank, I need your help. I'm concerned about what your husband may do. He has made threats against the life of Alex Perry. And me as well. In his present condition, I'm afraid he may try to carry them out. I'd like your help in calming him down, getting him through this period until he recovers from Sam's death and can think straight again. Will you help me?" He hoped that sounded right; if she refused....

Hannah Burdette suddenly acquired the strangest look. She stared down at her hands, flexing them as if unsure she was still conscious, then hurriedly rubbed them on her apron. She flushed red and jammed them into her pockets. "I don't know," she muttered. She shrugged. "I just don't know."

"It's very important, Mrs. Burdette. We may not have much time."

"I know that, Mr. Mosley. But there's something you need to understand. Joe doesn't always listen to what I say. We live our separate lives now. I don't know that I could be much help."

"You could talk to him."

"Mr. Mosley, when my family cane to this country from Germany, and settled in this area, people were very suspicious. We came to this town in 1942 and Germans weren't very popular then. Joe Burdette stood up for us, for me, against a lot of hatred and suspicion. Maybe that's why I fell in love with him. It was very important to me, back then, to be accepted by people, to be appreciated. I spent most of my childhood fleeing the Nazis, from one town to the next, never sure whether out friends would still be friends. Joe stood up to people and that impressed me. Naturlich, I am very grateful. I am also ashamed and I do not like to admit this. I cannot have children, you see. I am not capable. So I have no way of repaying Joe and this makes us both bitter." She looked up at Mosley, her mouth a thin, tight line. "When I was younger, Joe would be very angry about this. He would beat me. Now, not so much. But that is my punishment. Mr. Mosley, my husband is like a little child, sometimes. He has episodes when he does not think clearly, when he is violent and uncontrollable. You may not understand this but I look forward to those times. They give me my chance to be needed, to care for him and pay back what he did to help my family. Otherwise, we ignore each other, as much as possible. Don't misunderstand me, Mr. Mosley, I do not get much satisfaction out of suffering. Who knows? Maybe I feel some guilt over getting out of Germany before the war. I lost many friends to the Nazis. So, perhaps, a part of me needs to suffer. My sister Lise thinks we should be divorced but that is no longer possible. 'Why do you keep him around?' she asks me. What can I say to that? Why does one keep old clothes around? They are comfortable, reliable. Talk to Joe?'' She smiled at the thought. "What should I say, Mr. Mosley? Joe, don't be mean. Joe, don't hurt people. My words have little affect anymore. I am not in such a position that I can demand this kind of change in my husband. Versteht das? Joe will be Joe." She picked up the knife in her calloused hand and began carving again.

"Then you're willing to see more people hurt? I can't believe that, Mrs. Burdette. You, more than anyone, know what Joe is capable of. Don't be blinded by this obedience. You've paid your debt a thousand times. You're part of the town now--you don't need Joe to shield you. If anything, you owe it to your friends and neighbors; they're the ones who'll suffer if Joe isn't stopped."

Hannah nicked her finger with the knife and sucked on it tenderly for a minute. "How do you know Joe is behind all these goings-on? How can you be sure?"

Mosley shifted uneasily. "I have nothing but circumstantial proof, Hannah. I think you could answer that question better than me."

She studied him thoughtfully, still sucking on her finger. "Neville Blanchard?"

Mosley nodded. "I've suspected it for years. But I can't prove it. I know all about Joe's' episodes; about his bad headaches and dizzy spells. Sam told me once. That's why I need your help now. Find out how he's feeling. Let me know what he's up to. If he goes hunting with that club of his, tell me. And talk to him. I know that won't be easy. But if we don't stop him now, more people will be hurt." Mosley took her other hand and held it. "Maybe even Joe. Maybe even you. People are getting desperate now. There's no telling what they might do."

Hannah slowly extracted her hand from Mosley's grip and looked at it. "I don't know how much help I can be, Mr. Mosley. I don't like it at all. But I'll try. I'll do what I can."

"Good. I'm glad to hear you say that." He looked around the kitchen. A pot of hot water was boiling on the stove behind him. "Guess I'll go have that sandwich now. Thanks, Hannah. You're doing the right thing."
Chapter 22

1.

It was Wednesday afternoon before Rodrigo Donze's van was finally repaired. He paid the bill in cash--two hundred and seventy-two dollars--and drove around to the restaurant to have a quick dinner. After eating, he would finish packing his gear and get on the road before it got too dark. With any luck, he'd make it through Atlanta by midnight, find himself another roadside motel and sack out until dawn Thursday.

That way, he'd have the whole day to find Scotland Lake.

Captain Donze ordered himself the ham steak and French fries for the third day in a row. The Road Rally offered seafood and he had tried it Monday night, after depositing the van at the Gulf station, but only once. He'd almost puked after that first bite of the broiled flounder. It was ham steak all the way from then on.

He chewed thoughtfully on the meat and felt his coat pocket for the reassuring bump of Rita's diary. He had re-read the most important passages the last few nights, re-read them until he was numb and bleary-eyed from lack of sleep. He did not remember his niece all that well; Rafael and Pilar did not keep in touch when they left Miami and moved up the coast. She seemed like a serious girl, even somber at times, in contrast to her sisters and especially to Pilar. Rafael has a good eye. He didn't think she was likely to go to the trouble of making up a story like this, although it was possible. He knew that this Lucille Perry had really existed.

That much was fact. And Rita had gone to work for her in January 1946; he had substantiated that with Rafael.

It was what had happened afterward that disturbed him. He wouldn't have placed any credence in the story at all had it not been for the wreck of the Petion and his own experience with the great hurricane.

That and the radio.

It was all very troubling, these things he must tell. Maybe they know already. These Perrys are an unusual family, if what Rita says is true. And what about Agou'e?

All of a sudden, Donze no longer felt very hungry. The meat turned pasty in his mouth and he spat it out. He finished his coffee and left a small tip, then went and paid the bill.

Outside, the dusty orange of sunset put a garish glow to everything. He walked briskly across the parking lot, back to his room. He did not notice the green panel truck parked next to his van.

The room was cold and Donze turned down the air conditioner. Two suitcases lay open on his bed, waiting for him to finish packing. He unzipped a pouch in the corner of one and pulled out a flask of bourbon, which he unscrewed and put to his lips. It was hot and good and it chased the rancid taste of that ham in his mouth. He swallowed some more, placed the open flask on top of the TV set, and set to packing.

Half an hour later, Rodrigo Donze had drained the flask and gone out for a few beers. Crumpled cans were strewn all about the room but at least the packing was done and he sank wearily into the chair beside the bathroom door. He switched the TV on and squinted at the blurry picture of a war movie, flickering across the screen. The steady vertical jumps made him dizzy.

A heavy thud sounded outside and was quickly followed by a pair of thumps against the door. Donze shook himself out of the stupor and got up to investigate. He put his ear to the door just in time to hear the muffled pop of a gunshot. It was oddly muted--the result of a silencer, he later learned--and someone groaned in pain. Gouging sleep out of his eyes, Captain Donze unbolted the door. Just on the other side, a high voice hissed. "That's your cut of the deal, sucker!" Donze yanked the door open, just in time to witness a dagger flashing by.

A dark-haired stocky man with a heavy black beard and moustache staggered off the wall, the dagger buried in his gut up to its hilt, and fell into his room, clutching the door jamb, before pitching forward onto the carpet. Donze stepped back and let him fall, then looked across the hall at the assailant.

The attacker was gaunt, ivory-faced, with a high forehead and deep-set eyes. He stared wildly at Donze for a second, his eyes hard and unblinking. There was a brutish, animal cast to that face and Donze swallowed hard. They both spotted the .38 on the carpet at the same time.

The gaunt man lunged for the piece but Donze swung his foot up and it connected with his face, knocking him sprawling. Before Donze could reach the weapon though, the man had shifted his own feet around and taken Donze off balance. He stumbled back into his own room, tripping over the blood-soaked body of the knife victim.

Somewhere in the frantic seconds that followed, Rodrigo Donze realized that he had come across a drug deal that had gone sour. He grappled with the gaunt man and, much to his surprise, found that he was in the fight of his life. Donze was a powerful man himself, able to haul down massive yardarms with the best of them. But this man was stronger, inhumanly stronger. Once, maybe twice, Donze got the chance to look into those dull, black eyes. They seemed so lifeless. The man gripped Donze under the armpits and thrashed him against the wall until he was sure his own skull would crack. Falling to the floor, his face puffy from repeated blows, he thought for a brief instant that he was back in that foaming squall in 1947 again, clinging for his life to that splintery spar. His arms ached and his head throbbed and that sickening putrid breath filled his lungs again. He hit the floor hard, knocking his breath out, and lay stunned for a moment, gazing up at that grimacing face.

A change had come over it, even in the short seconds since their first blows. No longer gaunt, no longer even recognizably human, the thing leered over him, straddling his legs, another dagger now poised high overhead. Its face was a carcass of worm-eaten flesh, decaying right before his very eyes. It was then that Rodrigo Donze noticed the dribbling blood, pumping freely from a gunshot wound in its chest. The man stabbed had managed to pump a few rounds into this ghastly thing.

But the knowledge did him no good for one second later, Donze gagged in pain and shuddered. The cold clean steel of the knife blade was plunging toward his heart.
Chapter 23

1.

Alex Perry was glad the Stockers had invited them to a party at Nicoll's Island. He didn't much relish the thought of having to spend Saturday night at home, trying to find something to say to Bette that wouldn't start her off again about moving out of Scotland Lake. A big, boisterous party full of loud, drunken people was just what they needed and he didn't even feel too bad about hurrying her along so they could get out there and be among friends as soon as possible. With people like Jasmine Stocker and Edna Littleton around, she wouldn't have the time to dwell on things that couldn't be helped.

So he accelerated down West Ramp Road toward the docks at a speed that would have made Dick Mosley flinch, had he himself not already been at the party. The truth was, the town needed this little diversion. Anything to restore a sense of normalcy to its daily existence. The party was scheduled to begin around eight, as was usually the case, but only minutes after seven, virtually everybody was present and accounted for. For the next ten minutes, Raymond Stocker was kept hustling, metering out the liquid refreshment.

Alex couldn't get to the party soon enough.

They pulled into the parking lot, now nearly full, and got out. Ray has bigger crowds for his closing than he does the whole season. They made their way down the wooden steps to the dock, where they stood by themselves, waiting for Ray to return with the Empress Steamer. After a few minutes, someone noticed them and waved in the distance. It wasn't long after that that the sound of the Steamer's diesels being cranked up came drifting across the water.

It was still and cool by the lake, and the bright point of Venus gleamed low in the southern horizon. Alex clasped his arms around Bette's waist and waited impatiently for the ferry to make the crossing. Bette had been quiet since they left the house, now, she tensed her shoulders slightly and Alex could feel a question coming.

"Honey, do you think we did the right thing? Moving up here, I mean?" She waited for an answer, and when he didn't reply immediately, she looked up at him.

"Yes." he finally said. He'd hoped to avoid this tonight; it usually ended in an argument. "I really do. Don't you?"

"I don't know. I wonder about it sometimes." Hell, I wonder about it all the time. "I'm worried about the kids. About what all these murders are doing to them. The other night, Marcy woke up screaming. She'd had a nightmare and didn't want to go back to sleep."

The Empress Steamer was maneuvering for its approach to the dock. They waved at Ray in the deck house. "The kids will be okay. Moving to a new town takes some adjusting, that's all."

"I guess so. But Marcy keeps asking me why Suzie Costa died. What should I tell her?"

Alex shrugged. "I don't know--say she went to visit God. And decided to stay."

"You don't have to be flip about it."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be." He bent over and kissed her on the forehead. "It's a difficult time for all of us. Why don't we just forget it for the evening and concentrate on having a good time. Let's don't make any hasty decisions until we think this out."

Bette folded her arms and frowned. "You don't want to leave Scotland Lake, do you?"

Alex watched as Ray guided the Steamer to a bumpy landing at the dock. The tires along the edge of the wharf squealed as the boat scraped along. "Not really. I thought we moved up here to get away from the crime and traffic and smog. You want to go back to all that? This is healthier for the children."

''I suppose so."

"Oh, by the way," Alex said, "that Captain Donze is going to be delayed again. Another accident. He's in a hospital in Macon and won't be out for awhile, I heard. That's what Mosley said."

"Seems to me like he doesn't really want to come up here and claim his niece's body." And who can blame him? They walked down the wooden steps to the wharf and greeted Ray.

"You two make a solemn pair. Discussing funeral plans or something?" Ray shoved the gangway down and it clunked onto the wharf boards with a solid thunk. "Come aboard and we'll be off to my magic kingdom. You're late, by the way."

Alex followed his wife onto the deck. "You said the party started at eight.''

Ray gestured over to Nicoll's Island. A low din could be heard, coming from the north island. "So I did. But everyone else showed up early. Ergo, you're late. Hang on." He hauled up the gangway, went back to the deck house and fired up the engines. Minutes later, they were underway, making for the Steamer's slip in the little cove by the flag garden. A white frothy wake trailed behind them.

The crossing took about ten minutes and Ray whooped out, "Here we are! All hands on shore!" as he wedged the ferry against the pilings and Alex sprang onto the wharf there to help make her fast. He secured the ropes to the mooring cleats (Ray checked them himself a few minutes later; "she came loose not too long ago and nearly floated off before I could get to her. That would have been disastrous. I suspect Jackie Boy Blanchard was behind that.") and waited for Bette and Ray to come ashore.

They strolled through the central square, past souvenir shops and the now darkened carrousel. Alex glanced down at his left hand, involuntarily, and shuddered. No sense wondering about that. He stayed as far away from that ride as he could.

They crossed the swaying footbridge to the north island and plunged into the party almost immediately. Alex was a little surprised to see Frank and Jeanne Costa there; it had only been a few weeks since Suzie's death. He waved to them and decided they had come for the same reason he and Bette had; to get their minds off unpleasant things. Bette steered him over to say hello.

"Glad you could make it," said Frank. He raised his drink in a sort of half salute. "Can I get either of you anything?"

"Who's bartending?" Alex asked.

"Whoever wants to," said Jeanne. She took Bette's hand and smiled faintly. They stared at each other in silence for a moment. "How are the kids?"

"They're fine, Jeanne. Really, they'll be okay. How about you?"

She grinned and finished her drink, handing the empty glass to her husband. "Couldn't be better? Can't you tell? Oh, honey--" she snagged Frank by the belt before he could run off to the bar, "make it a little stronger this time, will you? That's a good boy."

"Beer for me," said Alex. Bette put in a request for a Scotch and Frank trotted off. The bar had been set up inside one of the hot dog and coke vendor's stands. Ray Stocker looked ridiculous inside the candy-striped booth.

The smell of hot dog and hamburger buns cooking wafted down from a big stone pit behind the booth. Red Beavers and Cyrus Haley were having an animated conversation on one side of the pit. In the thick smoke that hung over the grille, they looked like ghosts trying to frighten each other. For some reason, Red wasn't wearing his usual blue baseball cap.

Even Robert McNeese had made it to the party this evening. Alex couldn't remember the last time he had seen the old man; probably it was some dedication or something in the square. He was a rangy, white-haired fellow, tonight smartly attired in a dark brown blazer and white pants, a bright yellow carnation fixed to his breast. He had never personally met the man, although he figured he had probably heard all the McNeese stories there were to tell. Everybody had one. He'd long ago formed the opinion that the great-great-grandson of the town's founder was something of a dandy and a flirt. From where he stood between the wading pool and the entrance to the botanical gardens, that looked to be true. Robert McNeese was holding court with a bevy of smirking older women, the nucleus of the Scotland Lake Azalea Club, in the gazebo of the gardens, surrounded by cherry trees and hydrangea bushes. The ladies were spellbound.

"Quite a bunch, isn't it?" Jeanne had been watching as Alex surveyed the scene. Bette had wandered off to visit with Jasmine Stocker, who sat with Toni Ames and Charlotte Beems beside the wading pool. All three of them had removed their shoes and let their feet dangle in the water. It wasn't long before Bette joined them.

"It is that," Alex said. He looked around for a place to sit and decided on a wooden bench under an old oak tree. The dirt was beginning to collect acorns and Alex picked up one to examine it. Jeanne sat down next to him. "What kind of winter do you think we'll have?"

"Dreary."

"You've already heard the forecasts?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter what the weather does. It's always dreary around here in the winter. And after a year like this, it'll be even worse. Frank and I have been here since 1972, so this is our fourth party. Ray and Jasmine have them every year. There's a game you can play at these things. A gruesome kind of game but it'll keep you occupied during the winter."

"What kind of game?"

Jeanne gestured with her drink. "Take a look at them. We've probably got twenty-five, maybe thirty people here tonight. Wouldn't you say?"

"If I were estimating, yeah. Something like that."

"Someone who's here tonight, at this party, won't be alive when Ray opens up the park next spring."

"What do you mean?"

"One of us will either commit suicide or have a fatal accident or be murdered. I've kept up with this. At first, I thought it was just coincidence. Now I'm not so sure.''

"Jeanne, you've had too much to drink. That's silly. Losing Suzie the way--"

"It has nothing to do with Suzie, Alex. I'm telling you the truth. Each year, someone who attended this party has croaked over the winter. In 1972, it was Wilma Blalock. In '73, it was Jamie Douglas. Last year, Margaret Graydon--that's Leo Stearns' sister. They go like clockwork, like the seasons. I was just wondering; who will it be this year? Me? You? Bette?"

"Jeanne, stop this. I thought we were here to ditch our troubles for the evening. You're not doing yourself any good thinking like that."

She scuffed at some acorns. "I can't help it. Do you know why Frank and I moved up here?"

"Why?"

"To get away from Frank's family in Miami. They're all monsters, every one of them. Even Frank thinks so. When his father was indicted on some kind of smuggling charge and the trial came, it was just hell. His mother, Maria, had a nervous breakdown. I was pregnant with Suzie. Frank was trying to run a decent practice and defend his father and care for his mother and me all at the same time. It's a wonder he didn't up and leave. We left after Edward was acquitted, completely exonerated, and never went back. It was like living in a cattle pen down there, Alex. Tempers were short, nerves were shot, God knows what would have happened if Edward had been convicted. We came to the Lake because we needed some peace and quiet. We needed to be among people who would just leave us alone for awhile, so we could get our skulls back together. Some little out-of-the-way hole where we could raise a family the way we saw fit. In 1972, I thought we had found it. Now...."

"It was pretty much the same with us," Alex admitted.

Jeanne went on. "I don't know. There aren't many natives left in the Lake. Sometimes, I think that everybody's come here for the same reason. This is the last train station before death. People come here to get away from it all only to have it catch up to them here and strangle them. On real black days, I see the Lake as a living graveyard and all my neighbors as corpses waiting for burial. That's pretty bleak, isn't it?''

Alex's hand found hers and squeezed it gently. "You've got every right to feel a little bleak. If there's anything Bette or I can do, you'll say it, won't you? Anything at all?"

"Yeah, I guess so." She ground an acorn into the dirt, cracking it. "Somebody has to do the living."

"That's more like it."

"DINNER! COME AND GET IT!" Ray Stocker's voice boomed out across the picnic grounds. Somebody banged a spatula against a pot and added, "LAST ONE HERE WASHES DISHES!" With that, the rush to the tables was on.

They had hot dogs and hamburgers, potato salad and Cole slaw, French fries and hard-boiled eggs, peanut butter sandwiches and potato chips, pickles and baked beans. The tables were crowded and noisy, with everyone jostling for something. There was good-natured kidding and a few dirty jokes and plenty of beer passed around. The cool twilight mountain air had stirred up big appetite and the chatter soon fell off as the serious business of feeding began.

An hour's worth of gluttony left just about everyone stuffed and groaning. Jasmine disappeared for a few moments and returned with a tray full of cakes and pies, grinning broadly at the boos and hisses as she placed it on the table. "There's ice cream in the cooler, too, everybody, so don't be dainty. Otherwise, we'll just have to have another party next Saturday to get rid of it." She began slicing one of the cakes to apportion it equally. A new round of catcalls erupted with each slice.

When they were finally done and the last of the beer was being passed around, Ray Stocker took the moment to stand up and propose a toast. No one else had the energy to get up.

"All right, kids, now that we've stuffed our fat faces all night long, it's about time for me to make my usual sterling valedictory on the evening. Jas, would you--?" He motioned for his wife to come stand beside him. Cyrus Haley whistled and got cuffed on the head as she brushed by him. Everyone laughed. "Now, we're grateful you came tonight and helped us dispose of all this food and blah, blah and all that. But what I really wanted to announce is that this year, just out of the goodness of our hearts, and because we want your help later, we're going to open up the park for a few more hours and get all the rides going." A big cheer went up, followed by more laughing. "Everybody's invited: the Serpent'll be up, the Ferris wheel, the merry-go-round, the waterslide if you're not already completely sloshed by then, maybe even the stagecoach. So how about that?"

A lusty chorus of applause and whistles.

"There's only one catch: you gotta help us clean the place up while you're at it. Fair enough?" A tidal wave of loud boos, hisses and grumbles. "I knew you'd like that. Okay? Let's everybody start with this table here. We'll do that and then we'll work our way south, toward the other islands. I don't reckon anyone's hot for the petting zoo tonight, are they?" Any reply he might have expected was quickly lost in the general commotion of everybody getting up and collecting plates and utensils. With a satisfied look on his face, and a quick peck from Jasmine, Ray patted himself on the stomach and pitched in to help. At least, we'll end the season on a bright note.

With so many people helping out, the north island was soon cleaner than it had been at any time since Ray had let his help go a few weeks before. The crowd soon withdrew back across the footbridge to the Center island and in no time at all, the place was awash with multi-colored floodlights and the merry little ditties of the carrousel piped through the loudspeaker. Jasmine started up the cotton candy spinning machine in front of the Skyland Saloon and a line formed almost immediately.

"Hey, Alex!" A voice came floating up from the narrow bluff a hundred feet east of them. Two figures waved from the edge of the island. "Let's go rowing!" It was Frank Costa. Jeanne was with him. "It'll be fun! There's a stiff breeze out on the lake!"

Alex grinned. "Admiral Nelson himself." He cupped his hands and yelled back, "WE'LL MEET YOU AT THE DOCKS!" Frank waved his acknowledgement and they disappeared down the side of the bluff to make their way back to the pier. "It'll probably do us good," he told Bette. She shook her head and smiled.

"I'd just love to have two drunk men row me all over the Lake."

They met Frank and Jeanne at the foot of the pier. Tied up next to the Empress Steamer was a long, slender aluminum canoe. Frank raised his beer in salute as they arrived and motioned to the boat. "Ray said we could use it. As long as we don't get lost."

Bette smiled at Jeanne. "Seems to me he's lost already."

Jeanne ruffled his hair; it was already disheveled. "Okay, sailor. Lead the way."

They walked down to the canoe and climbed in. The boat rocked gently in the water as they situated themselves for the trip. Alex untied the ropes and tossed them in before stepping over the edge himself. He took a position in back, Frank sat in the prow, Jeanne and Bette in the middle.

Alex nudged the canoe away from the pier with the tip of the oar and then plunged it into the black water and started backing them out. Frank was right, he told himself. After that dinner, we need this. The swish of the oars through the water was relaxing and Bette and Jeanne soon settled back to enjoy the night sky.

It was clear but dark away from the glare of the floodlights on Nicoll's Island. There was no moon but the stars gleamed hard and sharp in the mountain air. There was a good breeze blowing from west to east, across the boat as they rowed in a general southerly direction. It stirred the water into a light chop.

At Frank's suggestion, they steered southwest once they had passed the southernmost point of the islands. Apparently, Ray Stocker had decided not to start the Ferris wheel after all; it lay still and dark now, creaking slightly in the breeze.

The revelry had migrated straight for the main square and probably, Alex thought to himself, right into the Skyland Saloon. Even from their distance, they could occasionally catch the strains of some popular tune the jukebox was blaring out. It sounded as though it had been turned up to full volume.

They can probably hear it all the way into town.

They continued rowing for awhile, quartering the current, which was flowing approximately south-southeast, until they had reached the one point in the lake that was furthest from any shore. Frank suggested they raise oars for awhile and drift. "Just to enjoy the peace," he said. "I brought something to help out too." As Alex looked on, Frank hauled up a small wicker basket and set it on the bench next to Jeanne. He opened it to reveal some sandwiches and leftovers wrapped in tinfoil, plus a bottle of wine, a Burgundy from the looks of it. "Ray was going to throw the food out. I told him we could get rid of it for him."

''If he'd throw in some cheap booze," Jeanne added. They all laughed and waited for Frank to uncork the wine and measure out a healthy serving in Styrofoam cups. They toasted the night and settled back to relax.

There were several other islands in the lake, small unnamed clumps of grass and dirt not much bigger than a good-sized front yard. One of them lay only a few hundred yards southeast of them, a low, weed-infested ledge almost invisible on a dark night. There were a few trees on the island but they were small and twisted, their natural growth stunted by the sandy soil in which they were rooted. From time to time, a limb of one of these trees would rot through and fall off, splashing into the water among the reeds that surrounded the island and usually, but not always, becoming entangled in the thick undergrowth there. On occasion, the combination of wind and current was such that a blackened log would escape this barrier of rushes and be carried out into the deeper waters of the lake itself. From there, the prevailing current almost always carried it further to the south, toward the Pioneer River dam.

Almost always.

Frank Costa propped his feet up on the bench next to his wife and lay with his head resting against the curve of the deck. He sipped at the Burgundy and inhaled its aromatic vapors deeply, content just to enjoy the freshening breeze and the sleepy rolling of the canoe in the waves. He had taken his shoes off and now rubbed Jeanne's back with his stocking feet. She liked it and arched a little so he could run in the most comfortable place. At the other end of the boat, Alex and Bette sat quietly together, on their bench. both staring down at something on the deck. From somewhere on shore, the fluttering of bird's wings was audible.

"It is nice out here, isn't it, honey?" Jeanne turned around so she could see her husband nestled up against the prow. "I'm glad you thought of it."

"You're not sorry we came to the party?"

She shook her head. ''No." She tickled his feet a little. "You were right. It was something we needed to do." She leaned back against the side of the boat, stretched out across the bench lengthwise. The ends of her hair trailed off in the water.

"I never know quite what to think about this place," Bette said. ''One day, it seems like a looney bin full of murderous old coots. The next day, something like this. It's like the town has several personalities. You never know which one's going to show."

"It's nights like this that Frank and I were looking for when we came up here from Miami."

"Us too," said Bette. "Everything's so peaceful. I know it's really an illusion, but it's a nice one. Maybe we've misjudged Scotland Lake the last few weeks."

"Maybe," said Jeanne. "I can't think it's typical for a place this small to have three murders in a week. Atlanta or New York or Detroit maybe, but not here. Not the Lake.''

Bette sighed. She flipped off her shoes and dangled her legs over the edge. The water was cool and ticklish to her toes. "But it happened, that's the thing. And evidently, it's happened before. I can't help getting the impression that this happens periodically."

"Did anyone tell you that?"

"Not exactly. But you can see it in the faces of some of the older residents, I think. Not that they're the most friendly people I ever met anyway, but lately, just in the last month, haven't you noticed how grim and silent people are around town? In the square, in the stores, the post office, everywhere. Maybe it's just me, but they act like the plague has come and everybody else is contaminated. The other day, I tried to talk with Chessie McNeese at the Library--I was there with Marcy and Jimmy--and she wouldn't answer, wouldn't even acknowledge I was there. She just had her books stamped and stalked off. Even the librarian, Mrs. Hudson, was curt and abrupt. I was embarrassed."

"It's been a bad year for all of us. I kind of agree with Frank. Neither of us is sure that the Lake has much of a future as a tourist attraction."

"What'll the town do, then?"

"God only knows. It's such a quaint little place, in many ways. I sometimes wonder if anyone outside of you and me and maybe the Stockers really care. You get the impression the town is deliberately ignoring its attractions, like it's trying to starve them of support and maybe they'll go away. I know people like Joe Burdette sure don't have much use for them."

''You think maybe he's behind all this trouble we've been having?"

Jeanne nodded and sat up. She frowned. "I wouldn't put it past him. I don't know what his game is but I do know I don't like it."

Bette fidgeted a little and glanced over at Alex, who was staring off the other side. She hadn't told him yet she had withdrawn all their money from the bank. "Neither do I..." she muttered. I wish Jasmine were here.

Suddenly, the canoe was struck broadsides and nearly overturned. The impact almost pitched Frank right over the edge. He managed to grab hold of the bench and scramble back into the canoe.

The current had driven a huge log into them. It bumped up against the side of the canoe and scraped along, squeaking as it crumbled. Maybe seven feet long, it bore several limb stumps and a few big knots, long since knocked out. It rammed into the canoe again, this time moving them sideways through the water. Frank and Alex put their oars out quickly and began paddling away, across the current. A minute of hard rowing put some distance between them.

They raised oars and Alex mopped sweat from his face with his shirt sleeve. He patted his heart and muttered, "It startled me."

"Me too," said Jeanne. The log had rammed her side of the boat and pinned a few strands of her hair. She picked some pieces of wood out and tossed them into the water.

"Look," said Bette. She pointed at the log. "It's turning toward us."

And it was. Even as they watched, the end of the log turned slowly and began to drift back toward them. It glistened in the dim light and slipped easily through the water, a small 'V' of foam trailing behind it. They watched it approach, at first cautious, then with growing apprehension. It had taken dead aim on the side of the canoe.

"Look out!" Frank yelled. "Get back!" He pulled Jeanne down just as the log rammed them. Again, the boat tipped far over, nearly capsizing. At the same instant, something ripped into the deck, something sharp and powerful, slicing right through the aluminum belly of the canoe as though it were paper. In no time, a sizeable hole, jagged around the edges, had been produced. Water began pouring in.

"What the hell--"

"Start paddling!" Frank yelled. He grabbed his oar and sank it into the water. Alex used his to jab at the log. It glanced off the bark and cracked. Angrily, he tossed it overboard and began bailing water out with his hands. Frank bumped them into the log with his frantic paddling and it bobbed alongside for a few seconds, before sliding astern. The current seemed to have it now but when Frank lunged at one of the limbs. it rolled just out of reach and began drifting away, heading for shore. He watched in amazement for a moment--the damn thing had drifted across the current to get to them, then after colliding, it had floated with the current. He sat there astonished, the log gliding silently away into the night.

What on earth is in this lake?

"Frank!" It was Jeanne's voice. She clutched her husband's arm. "Frank, we're sinking!"

"Help Alex keep that water out," he told her. "It's a long way to shore." He dipped the oar back into the water and started rowing as hard as he could.

They had all had far too much to eat and drink. The next few moments were full of confusion and futility. It was almost impossible to bale and row without getting in each other's way and little good was done until they had organized themselves. Frank had the only good oars left; he had to row. Alex, Bette and Jeanne situated themselves to distribute their weight equally and set to work throwing water out with cupped hands, shoes, anything they could think of. After a few minutes, they were exhausted but they dare not quit. The nearest land was several hundred yards off and the canoe was riding lower and lower in the water. Frank grunted with each stroke.

Halfway to shore, the water was nearly up to waist level and it was clear they would never make it. Frank was near to collapse, Jeanne was growing dizzy from the exertion. Alex offered to take over for awhile but it was hopeless. The hole was too big, they were taking on water too fast. Their only hope was to try and make it to shore on their own. Capsized, the canoe would have made a suitable platform on which to float, but it was already going under, the water burbling loudly around the hole.

"We'll have to get out!" Alex said. He slipped off his shirt and socks. "Can everybody swim?"

"Nooo!" cried Jeanne. "I can't, I can't swim at all!" She eyed the water closing around them with terror, clinging desperately to her husband. Frank was gasping for air.

Bette looked at her husband. "Alex, you know I'm afraid of the water."

"That can't be helped now. Come on. Let's get out before we're dragged under."

Alex splashed over the side and sank down. He wondered as he was struggling back to the surface, just how deep it was here. His feet hadn't touched the muddy bottom, it had to be twenty-five feet or more at the least. He popped back to the surface, shook water out of his eyes and said, "Better now than never. Just lay back, honey, and I'll support you. Frank—"

Frank held up a hand, indicating he would be all right. He ditched the oar, then realizing that it would float, he went after it again and hauled it back to the side of the canoe. The edge was nearly underwater now and he wheezed out instructions. ''Jeanne...grab this...hold on and kick. You'll make it...." He made her fasten her fingers around the oar--she was stiff with fear and breathing hard--and then pulled them both off the bench just as the canoe upended. They managed to scramble out of its way and thrashed off to one side as it slid toward the bottom. In seconds, it was gone.

With Frank treading water beside her, Jeanne somehow managed. She cried and kicked, squeezing the oar so hard her fingers were white. The water was cold and scummy and they had to paddle right through a sticky mat of algae to get to shore. "Ugh!" muttered Bette. She lay on her side, Alex sliding her through the water. He had her firmly under the arms.

It seemed like forever but they finally made it to shallower water, to a thick patch of reeds and floating tree limbs a quarter mile or so south of the steep bluffs beneath the picnic grounds. Jeanne developed a cramp and couldn't paddle anymore. Frank had to yell at her to keep her from panicking. "Just calm down, stop crying, you're gonna be okay. Here, hold on tight, and I'll pull you."

"God, I'm scared. I can't do this, I swear I can't, Frank,,,."

But she did and when Alex felt his foot scraping along the muck at the bottom, he whispered, "Thank God," and tried to stand up. The mud was slippery and he lost his footing, ducking Bette's face under water for a second. She flailed wildly and came up panting, then realized she could stand up too and did so, carefully, cautiously, her face grimacing as she squished through the reedy marshes and clambered up onto more solid ground. She staggered through the rushes and dropped down to her knees, before falling on her side and rolling over. She groaned and fought for breath while Alex dropped down beside her.

Frank carried Jeanne up onto the shore, nearly stumbling over a sinkhole as he laid her down in the middle of some tall grass. She shuddered, wrapping her arms around her shoulders and wept softly. "What if there are snakes here?" She buried her head against Frank's chest as he plopped down next to her.

"Just rest. Don't think about it. You're all right now, you're gonna be all right." He pressed her closer and she sobbed for many minutes.

They rested for awhile, trying to regain their breath. The breeze made them shiver and Alex got painfully to his feet to look around for a more sheltered spot. The woods came down the bank almost to the shoreline; the little ledge where they had come ashore was no more than ten or fifteen feet wide and choked with high grass. He took a step, then stopped abruptly. Something had moved beyond the first line of trees.

"Did I hear something?" Frank asked. He peered up at Alex, who squinted into the darkness.

"I don't know," said Alex. His heart was racing; he could almost see it, just a tad closer--

There was a sharp rustling in the bush and something heavy darted off, its feet or hooves pounding the dirt. Alex froze for a second, trying to make it out, then climbed the bank after it. He stopped at the first tree.

"Alex, be careful .... "

But it was gone. He could hear limbs snapping in the distance and the tread of something heavy. But he couldn't catch it now. He slid back down the bank and sat next to Bette,

"Did you see what it was?"

"Nope."

"Maybe it was just the wind," said Jeanne hopefully.

"Maybe, but I don't think so. Not with feet like that."

Frank picked up a dirt clod and threw it into the lake, where it made a little plop. "You think we ought to tell Chief Mosley about this?"

Alex thought for a moment. ''I don't see what it would gain us."

"Neither do I," said Frank. He tossed another dirt clod into the water. "Neither do I."
Chapter 24

1.

Hannah Burdette had gone to bed shortly after ten o'clock Saturday evening and hadn't yawned once in the three hours she had lain in bed. It was dark in the bedroom of the little cottage and as she stared up, she could easily see in her imagination the little patterns that all the dots on the ceiling panels made. She had created whole constellations up there at times, waiting on nights like this for Joe to come back. He never told her exactly where he'd be but she figured it was most likely Smitty's Perch or someplace like that. He wouldn't have been caught dead at home on a Saturday night.

She didn't anticipate his return with any special eagerness. They had passed that point twenty years ago. It was rather like the comfortable ticking of a clock. or the occasional whir of the refrigerator. Having Joe in bed next to her was no great sexual adventure either; she had amused herself just the other day trying to remember who had been President the last time they had made love. She simply felt at ease with his big, hairy bulk creaking the springs of the bed. It was routine, familiar, a part of the day just like breakfast and dusting the furniture. When a part of the routine was disturbed, it threw everything out of whack. With Joe in bed beside her, even ignoring her as he usually did, everything was all right. Everything was normal.

So she waited.

It was near onto two o'clock when she heard the heavy tread of her husband's boots on the cement front steps of their cottage. She thought it strange for a moment that she had not heard the grumbling of Joe's pickup in the driveway but the thought escaped before she could pursue it. She heard the key turning in the lock, the familiar grunt as he pushed open the door--it really should be planed down to fit the jamb a little better--and then the none-too-soft thud of the door being slammed shut. She smiled in spite of herself. At least that part of him had never changed. She hadn't married the man for his manners.

She heard him clumping down the hall and closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep. The bedroom door squeaked open and he came in. The first inkling that this was not going to be an ordinary night came when he opened the closet door and fumbled around among his shoes. That wasn't part of the routine—he always went into the bathroom first--and she parted her eyes slightly to see what he was doing.

It was dark and she could just barely make out the top of his head, bobbing at the end of the bed. He was sitting on the floor, apparently changing boots. She couldn't quite tell but she thought for a second that his crewcut head was wet. It must be raining outside.

He stood up with an audible groan and straightened out his jacket. He was wearing that faded old denim thing she had tried for years to throw away. Somehow, it kept reappearing, as though it had a life of its own. She closed her eyes again.

He was not coming to bed. She realized that he was going back out again. That was not her Joe at all and she was annoyed by it. As soon as he left the bedroom, not even bothering to pull the door, she sat up in bed and strained to listen. Where on earth was he going now?

She remembered what Chief Mosley had said earlier in the week. I need your help, Hannah, before he does something terrible. Before it gets out of hand. She threw back the covers and got out of bed, tiptoeing to the doorway. She heard him in the kitchen. He was in the refrigerator, probably taking out a beer. The pop-whiz of the top coming off confined her suspicion. There was a moment of silence--she could easily imagine him chugging the whole thing down, as was his custom (he was always so dainty about things like that)—then, the sound of a door opening. It was the back door. The stretching of the screen door springs was clear. It didn't slam. He was heading out into the backyard.

She went over to the window and parted the blinds. There he was, stalking off into the woods. She had thought he might be planning to work awhile in the shed, finishing up that silly boat of his, but no. That wasn't it at all. He soon vanished into the thicket.

She stood there for a few seconds, thinking. Mr. Mosley's voice grew more strident in her memory; he wasn't a man to plead very often, not at least as long as she had known him but he had come awfully close to it that night at the Café. Maybe he was right. If she could prevent something terrible, then wasn't it her duty? Deciding what to do was easier when she put it like that. Just like it was her duty to remember Lotte every year, when her family came together in Asheville: Helga, Mutter, Vater, Lise, all of them, to remember that frigid night on a Rhineland barge, fleeing the Nazis, fleeing for Rotterdam and sie ist tot, meine kleine kind, Lotte ist tot, wir muss Ihr jetzt vergessen. Lotte saved them all, gave up her life for all of them and she was not going to be forgotten, ever. They had fished her bloated body from the icy, turbid waters of the Rhine a few days later, and it was only then that the SS had stopped chasing them, apparently assuming the entire family had drowned.

She had a duty to follow Joe and watch him. A very important duty. Mr. Mosley had said so.

Hannah unhooked her bathrobe from the back of the door and groped around for her slippers. She would have to hurry, if she hoped to catch up. Turning on the light, she spied a small puddle of water where Joe had left his boots. It was muddy and cold and she wondered where it had come from. His boots were soaked clean through.

She didn't have time to think about it. Hannah wrapped herself in the robe and hurried down the hall into the kitchen. The door was unlocked and she pulled it open, peering through the screen. No sign of Joe.

She ran down the steps and walked quickly toward the woods.

2.

The Silver Dollar lounge was south of town, out along U.S.19 directly across the highway from the Early Bird Truck Stop. It was an ungainly looking complex of trailers and add-ons, centered around a converted gas station, with the pump islands still in place but now barren of any equipment except for a mobile neon sign flashing on and off every four seconds, the image of a sparkling silver dollar lighting up the eyes of a shapely dancer as she gyrated for the passers-by.

The "Dollar" did a good business at any time of the day or night, owing to its location, but Saturday nights were something special. Between the hours of eight o'clock and 3 or 4 a.m., every trucker within a hundred miles somehow managed to find his way to the Early Bird for a bit of food and fuel. Often as not, they couldn't resist the suggestive winking of the neon striptease lady on the mobile sign, and so it was that after paying off the cashier at the Bird and grabbing a quick cheeseburger at the restaurant, they inevitably made their way across the road to the Silver Dollar in search of old buddies, card games, cheap beer and willing women. Most counted themselves fortunate to hit one of those four.

Jack Blanchard and Sandy Stearns had showed up at the Dollar along about seven and had been drinking seriously for going on five hours when they spotted a big, bearded bear of a driver down at the far end of the horseshoe-shaped bar, nose to nose with that new waitress Marilyn Whatever-her-name-was, his hands firmly entwined in her black hair as he tried to pull her in for a little smooch.

"Sandy, lookit that, will you? That fat sucker down there—he's about to pull Marilyn's hair off."

"I see him."

Jack slid off his stool, nearly spilling his beer, and started off in that direction. Sandy caught him by the arm.

"Where do you think you're going, hero?"

"He's hurting her."

"He's gonna hurt you if you get in his way. That turk must weigh three hundred pounds. Sit down."

But Jack pulled himself free and sauntered on down the bar, a little wobbly, but determined to arrive at the end of the bar and rescue the girl by whatever circuitous route his legs permitted him. He navigated several obstacles, one named Mack, the other a scrawny, wiry guy named Ronnie, careened over the edge of a table of bobbing cowboy hats and in good time, came in for a landing in the general vicinity of his destination. The bearded bear bulked huge on the little stool, leaning way over the bar. He didn't notice the little gnat buzzing in his ear until Jack stuck out his hand and pressed it firmly down on the fellow's shoulder.

When Sandy Stearns saw that, he made his way smartly to the pay phone in the corner and dialed up Chief Mosley. No sense wasting time. He knew Jack well enough to predict what would happen next.

The Bear cocked his head around--he had an earring in his left ear, a gold one--and growled. "What the fuck you want, little angel?"

Jack burped as loud as he could. "Like you to leave the girl alone, that's all. No big deal."

Bear grinned and scratched his beard vigorously. "You got dibs on her or somethin'?"

"Maybe. Whyn't you take your meathooks out of her hair? I doubt Mary--Marilyn, here, cares for your lice and fleas all that much."

The grin vanished and Mr. Bear shifted around on the stool so that he was more squarely facing Jack. The bartender, Woody Jones, eyed them warily from one corner, conversing nervously with one of his patrons. Mr. Bear peeped down at Jack's hands, still resting comfortably on his shoulders. "You got delicate hands, son, like an artist. You want ten broken digits?"

There are times when certain people demonstrate a disturbing tendency for self-destruction. When they seem almost hellbent on daring death and tempting forces greater than they are. Race drivers are like that, so too are test pilots and political assassins. There had never been any question in Sandy Stearns' mind that his friend Jack was one of those unfortunate people. In some respects, their friendship was predicated on Sandy's desire and Jack's need to be protected from himself. Ever since they had first met in eighth grade at Appalachian County High, out on the football field where both had been trying out for the same linebacker position, Sandy had known Jack was this way. He was no longer all that surprised by Jack's wilder outbursts, but even so, he couldn't help but cringe when he saw his friend reach up and grab the woolly bear of a truck driver by his beard.

The fight lasted maybe two minutes. Chief Mosley was uncharacteristically quick in arriving; he was pulling them apart, with some help from the other drivers, almost as soon as they tangled.

The first thing to hit the floor was Jack Blanchard, a nice solid thud that rattled some of the glasses swinging from their overhead racks. The trucker bounced off his stool with surprising agility and hauled Jack to his feet before he had time to recover from the first blow. He was about to plant another one when Jack kneed him in the groin and sent him sprawling and groaning back against the bar. Something cracked when he hit the counter.

They butted like Sumo wrestlers for awhile, the bigger man with a clear advantage of strength but Jack quite able to hold his own, as he always had, with his quick hands and superior knowledge of a man's vulnerable points, courtesy of the U.S. Air Force martial arts program for pilots in enemy territory. And there was the factor of several weeks of suppressed rage. Biochemical reactions can lend a man great strength if he knows how to tap them. Jack delivered several blows to the bigger man's thorax, causing him to gasp for breath and at this moment of weakness, as he clutched at his throat wondering if the cartilage had been shattered, Jack buried a fist into his solar plexus and followed up with a vicious blow to his ears.

They staggered and stumbled for a few seconds, circling each other cautiously, poking and probing and slapping hands until Jack caught his jeans on the jagged edge of a table they had splintered and momentarily lost his balance. Seeing this, the Bear dived in and sent them both crashing to the floor and the weight of the guy landing flush on Jack's chest almost crushed the breath out of him. In an instant, the Bear had his elbow jammed up under Jack's chin, stretching his head back until he was sure his neck would snap.

Dick Mosley flew into the lounge a second later.

With the Bear off in one corner, held down by four men and panting like a dog, his jacket minus one sleeve, and Jack handcuffed at the other end of the bar, Sandy Stearns still having to restrain him, the Chief straightened out his uniform, brushed off peanut crumbs and spilled beer and said, ''Who started this? What's the matter with you men?"

He need hardly have asked the question for all eyes immediately moved in Jack's direction. Mosley wiped his mouth and went over to glare at the boy. "What the hell's gotten into you, son? You know I'm going to have to arrest you for drunk and disorderly conduct. Can't you stay out of trouble even one day?"

Jack was breathing hard but he said nothing. His hair was greasy and disheveled and he had a darkening bruise on his cheek. Part of his lip was swollen.

''All right, all right, let's everybody pitch in and help Woody clean this place up." Mosley gave Sandy Stearns a severe look and took Jack by the shoulder. Jack tried to shrug the grip off but the Chief only held on tighter. "I don't want to come down here again, you guys got that? I want to sit back in my chair and snooze and watch the late movie. Now I've probably missed the best part of 'Destination Tokyo.' Shut up and sit down and act your age for a change."

He stalked out, dragging Jack Blanchard by the arm. Sandy Stearns followed. A few minutes later, the big Bear paid off his own bill and left too. He climbed up into his bright blue Peterbilt and fired the engine angrily. By the time he had put her into gear and was rolling across the asphalt toward the dark ribbon of U.S. 19, he had already made up his mind that he wouldn't come back to this place for all the souls in heaven and hell.

Scotland Lake is full of fucking animals.

3.

It was chill and damp in the woods and Hannah Burdette wished almost immediately that she had thought to cover herself with something more than a bathrobe. She was afraid for several minutes that she had lost Joe; she certainly didn't know her way around these woods as well as he did. The thought of spending the rest of the night with the crickets and snakes and owls and those withered trees and the squishy things she kept stepping on kept her hustling to stay up with her husband. Mr. Mosley or not, she wasn't about to stay out in these woods at night.

She could hear some faint rustling ahead and prayed it was Joe, and not something else. At least, the path they were taking was well worn, the brush stamped down good and hard and the worst of the tough tree roots behind her. Every so often, she would stumble into a thicket of thorny vines; it was so dark she could never see them in time and she would spend the next few minutes cursing as she tried to disentangle herself without making too much noise.

She came to a split in the path and stopped to puzzle out which route to take. They both looked equally promising and she could not determine from the rustling and snapping of occasional twigs, which one Joe had taken. On impulse, she took the left branch and quickly regretted it. The terrain became rougher, the slope much steeper and she had to stop for breath periodically and hope she could catch up later. She didn't linger long though, not when something thrashed among the leaves right beside her foot. She jumped up startled, a little cry caught in her throat and stumbled on, her slippers scuffing and sliding on rock balds now wet with dew.

The path she had been following reached some kind of crest and began to descend again. Hannah breathed a silent sigh of thanks. Where are you taking me tonight, Joe? She paused at the summit, trying to take stock of where she was. The brush had thinned out and she stood now in an eerie grove of slender pine trees, all perfectly still as if waiting for her, and the air was thick with pine resin. The floor of the forest was covered in pine needles and cones and through the boughs, she could see lights in the distance, tracing their way up the side of another mountain. Eagle Point, maybe? There were several homes on the southern slopes of that hill, among them the McNeese house.

If that was the case, then it was possible Joe was heading for Cathedral Caverns. That seemed the most likely destination in the direction they were going. Surely, he didn't plan on hiking cross-country all the way to Robbinsville.

What on earth would he be doing in the Caverns at this time of night?

She scrambled down the other side of the peak, going carefully and making sure to grab a hold of whatever she could to keep from slipping; the pine needles were loose and wet and she didn't much care for the idea of tumbling down the side of the mountain. The further she went, the more certain she was that her husband was indeed heading for the Caverns, though in a crazy, roundabout way. Her suspicion was confirmed when she saw the outline of the big fieldstone tower of the elevator shaft, silhouetted against the night sky. Though she could no longer hear Joe slipping through the bush, she was almost certain he had come this way. She came at last to the steep bank around the parking lot and paused before negotiating the hill.

A dark figure was just disappearing into the side of the Visitors Center as she scanned the grounds. It had to be Joe. He scrambled in through a window, legs kicking as he pivoted over the ledge, and disappeared. For a minute, Hannah was numb. Was he breaking in? The Caverns were closed for the evening; they'd be opening up at nine Sunday morning. What was he after?

She skidded down the slope on her rear end, getting her robe muddy and torn in the process but she didn't care now. She trotted across the parking lot, running up to where she had seen Joe go into the building. It was a high window—she wasn't altogether sure she could make the climb--until she saw the garbage can nearby. She grunted moving it over in place and then it was a simple matter to stand on top.

She looked in.

"My God... she muttered softly. It was the ladies' restroom. She looked around nervously, wondering what she might say if someone came by and inquired as to her intentions. To avoid that, she hoisted herself awkwardly over the windowsill and dropped down to the tile floor. There was a mud track leading out the open door and she held her breath, feeling her heart racing. Her throat was dry but she had found what she had wanted.

There was no question he had been here.

Hannah slipped silently out of the room and paused in the hall, looking both ways, before deciding to investigate the front room of the Center first. She poked her head around the corner, hiding behind a swiveling display of postcards and snapshots of the Caverns. Nothing. Warily, she crouched down and tiptoed over to the desk. Almost immediately, she saw the open closet door.

She moved behind the desk, banging her knee on the swinging door, and entered the closet. It was dark but there was light emanating from under the floorboards. She prowled around the closet for a few minutes until she found an opening in the floor, a place where the boards had been prised up and lay stacked against the wall. She got down on her knees and looked over the edge.

It seemed to be a crawl space, except for a short ladder that lay propped up against the side of the boards and gouged into the dirt at the bottom. She was squeamish about going down there; the light was dim, very shadowy and she could imagine the worms and roaches slithering around her ankles already. She shuddered. She might have given up the idea altogether and to hell with Mr. Mosley had it not been for the clear sounds of heavy boots clicking on the wooden flooring a few dozen yards beyond the little pit.

He was heading off deeper into the Caverns.

She debated the possibility. What if I get lost? What if he sees me? Whatever he was up to, this was not the normal way of entering the Caverns. Who else knew about it? The more she thought about it, the odder it seemed. She was curious and anxious and apprehensive and scared, all at the same time. But Mr. Mosley was right, wasn't he? Somebody had to keep an eye on Joe.

She hesitated a while longer, listening to the slowly fading footsteps. If she didn't move now, she'd never catch up and probably spent the night lost, wandering around inside the Caverns. They might find her body a few days later, frozen and stiff, propped up against a wall somewhere. She shuddered at the thought and drew her robe closer.

Hannah squatted down and slipped her feet onto the rickety ladder. She climbed down and stood in the soft dirt for a second. There was only one way out of the crawl space, and that was in front of her, on the other side of the ladder. The floor sloped down and as she hunched over and stepped gingerly to the edge, she could see a narrow dirt path about ten feet below the bank. She hitched up her robe and leaped, landing on all fours and hoping the sound didn't carry very far.

She got up and started off down the path. It was really a tiny tunnel, barely tall enough to stand up in, not more than a broad man's shoulders-width wide. It twisted around, doubling back on itself for awhile, until finally, after a short but steep decline between ice-covered rock walls, she practically fell out onto a wooden platform.

There were lights on throughout the Caverns, dim amber bulbs that created more shadow than light. She was in a little cove, apparently part of the tour route--there were plaques explaining the geology of the rock everywhere she looked. Iridescent blue boxwork and scallops decorated the walls. But there was no time to admire them. She had to catch up with Joe before his footsteps disappeared.

Quickly, silently, she followed the wooden planking indicating the scenic trail. It had been years since she had last been in this labyrinthine complex. As the clacking of Joe's boots grew steadily louder, she slowed down, so as not to overtake him. The last thing she wanted was to be discovered. She was grateful now that she had gone off in her bedroom slippers.

It would make following him a lot easier.

4.

Hannah Burdette had been shadowing her husband for what seemed to be the better part of an hour. She was absolutely certain he was lost, yet he pressed on deeper into Cathedral Caverns intent on getting somewhere in a big hurry. As far as she could tell, he hadn't spotted her yet, hanging back at every turn, padding hurriedly along the wooden flooring as he disappeared into one chamber after another. She never realized the caves were this extensive or that her husband knew his way so well. Many years ago, Greta Blanchard had told her that no one really knew how far down the complex extended; it had never been completely explored and there were plenty of branches and passages that were roped off until they could hire professional cavers to go in and scout the rest of the caves. She had never found the time or the money to do that and now, she was....

Hannah forced herself to avoid finishing that thought and instead concentrate on keeping to the right path. She began to wonder what she might do when and if Joe ever reached his destination. How on earth was she ever going to find her way back out, without his help? What if he stayed the whole night--it wasn't unusual anymore for him to come in right before dawn and climb into bed for a half hour's rest. She didn't think she could stand this damp cold in nothing more than a bathrobe. But that would mean showing herself, letting Joe know she had been following him the whole way. She didn't much think she could do that either. Himmel, Himmel, why did I ever agree with Mr. Mosley?

She stubbed her toe on an upraised board and choked down a little cry of pain. But the clacking of Joe's boots on the flooring kept up relentlessly, so she had no choice but to go on.

They descended through the Ice Veils, each with their blood-red capillary tubes and delicate stalactites, and then through the narrow arch of limestone "claws" before moving on into the Tower of Terror. The last time she had been in the Caverns, Greta and Neville hadn't put this little attraction in yet, so the sight of so many hideous faces leering down at her from every niche and recess was unnerving. She slid carefully along the bannister, watching every wink and laugh as she went along, once snagging her bathrobe on the edge of a calcite knob. Realizing she was caught, she whirled around to yank herself free and came face to face with Dracula, dribbling bright red blood that oozed down the knob into a tiny pool. She caught her breath and hurried on, anxious to get out of the Tower and away from those eyes and grins.

She had seen pictures of the chamber known as the Cathedral, with its spectacular array of Organ Pipes, and recognized the sight as soon as they passed through it. In large chambers like the Cathedral, she was afraid Joe might spot her if she followed him too closely, so she hung back a little further, listening carefully for the sound of his boots, until she was certain he was out the other side and heading on. Then, she hustled across to the branch she had seen him take and caught up again in the twisting, convoluted tunnels that seemed to connect all the Caverns' rooms. Joe seemed to favor these narrow passageways, often avoiding the larger chambers altogether, and in a way so did Hannah. It was easier to keep up with him, and easier to forget that she was hundreds of feet underground in a seemingly endless maze of cold, shadowy spaces. The steady clatter of his steps helped mask the thudding of her own heart.

She forced herself to glance at every plaque and sign as the sights of the Caverns passed by, just in case she had to get out on her own. She tried to memorize them along the way, in the same order they came up: Serpent's Crest, the Jungle of Mirrors, the Beehives, the Fingers, Dead Man's Pinch and Devil's Garden. Off in the distance, down one of the tunnels they did not take, she heard the rumbling of Pinnacle Falls, feeling the ground shake beneath her slippers as they ducked into yet another tunnel. He was taking her down a twisting course of turns and branches she never knew existed. Her breath became frosty in the cold air and she was careful to stay out of sight. Fortunately, once they moved past the Falls, the thick walls of the Caverns absorbed the noise and everything was silent again. She could follow the sound of his footsteps, and his hard breathing.

She passed by a plaque reading INDIAN BURIAL CHAMBER and Hannah chanced a quick look as she went by. The sight of the icy bier surrounded by slender pale blue stalagmites made her shiver. She had once thought that the Burial Chamber was the deepest point in the Caverns; that was what the brochures all said. But Joe had hardly paused at the entrance to the tomb, hurrying on down the corridor and disappearing around another turn. Hannah hustled to keep up.

The tunnels were becoming noticeably narrower and she had to slow down to keep from catching up too quickly. Above her head, the ceiling converged in a dazzling apex of stalactites, glistening by reflected light from further back in the corridor. The wooden flooring gave out, becoming a hard-packed dirt surface, bowed upward in the center so that footing was difficult. She found the walls smooth and featureless, except for bizarre grainy patterns, just barely visible in the failing light. Clearly, they had entered a place unexplored, perhaps even unknown. There were no signs of human visitation and even as she pressed on, Hannah told herself over and over again that the walls were solid, that those grainy streaks and whorls were not eyes leering at her, that the sound of her heart pounding was not echoing all over the Caverns, that somehow, some way, Joe would turn around and smile at her and laugh and say it was all a joke, "I fooled ya," and take her hand and lead her out of this miserable place that felt like it was closing in steadily, crushing the life out of her the deeper she went.

She remembered what had happened to Greta Blanchard. Don't think about it. But she couldn't help it. The poor woman killed like that--with a heavy stake rammed right through her middle. And she'd probably walked these tunnels a million times, probably knew them by heart. She wouldn't have been afraid of places like this and look what happened to her.

It was growing darker and she stumbled several times trying to stay in the center of the path. How could Joe know his way so well down here? She reached out to feel the walls-- that slick, glassy surface--to guide herself along. Another few dozen yards and the tunnel would be completely black; she'd be going on feel and sound alone then. The little knot of fear in her stomach began to grow.

Had she not had her hands against the wall, she would have certainly veered past the little crevice of an entrance without ever seeing it. It was so low, so narrow, that she had mistaken it for a natural recess in the wall. But it wasn't and she hung back by the corner and stooped down to peer inside.

At first, she couldn't see a thing. It was as black as the mud at the bottom of Scotland Lake. But gradually, her eyes began to adjust to the gloom, and a few dim flickering shapes materialized in front of her. With a start, she realized some faint light had come to the chamber. It was torchlight, coming from somewhere beneath the level of the door, just enough light to illuminate the dimensions of the room, throwing stark shadows up on the craggy walls. And on the outline of her husband, scrambling down a rickety ladder to the floor twenty feet below.

She could see now that it was a massive, although low-ceilinged chamber, easily a hundred feet in breadth, roughly oval in shape. Just beyond the door, a small ledge hugged the wall; it was from this ledge that the rope ladder descended. She guessed the drop to be twenty feet, maybe more, a sheer precipice that went straight into the floor. The ledge merged into the walls no more than ten feet on either side of the entrance and from that point all the way around the chamber, the walls were vertical and seemingly unscalable. Deep furrows marked the passage of ancient water flows and the rim where the floor met the walls was a forest of tightly packed stalagmites and knobby projections, crowded together so as to form a fence around the entire perimeter.

There was a small pool in the floor, at one end of the oval and the light made the water look green from where she was squatting. She crouched on the ledge and watched Joe walk across the floor, unsure of what he was going to do. He headed right for the pool and it was then that she noticed something else in the chamber, something her mind had refused to admit until it could no longer ignore the fact.

There were several corpses floating in the pool.

As far as she could tell, once she had gotten her breath back, the corpses were perfectly preserved. The distance and the flickering torchlight made seeing difficult but from where she stood, the bodies looked no more dead than Joe did. Their skins were pale but one of them, a tow-headed, middle-aged man who looked disturbingly familiar, almost seemed casual in the way he floated by the edge of the pool, as though he were in for a quick, refreshing dip and might climb out at any moment. Hannah shook her head and closed her eyes. Her throat was dry.

Squawky Douglas.

It had to be. The very guy. He had disappeared back in May and Joe had said he had left the Mountainmen voluntarily, "couldn't find the nerve to shoot a buck so we ditched him," was the way he had put it. The man had simply vanished.

Until now.

Hannah crawled into the chamber, on hands and knees, keeping low and quiet, her heart racing, a scream forming in the back of her throat.

There were other corpses and as she looked closer, she counted eight, ten, maybe more. Some of them bobbed just beneath the placid surface of the pool, a watery morgue perfect for keeping dead flesh from decay, she now realized. She didn't recognize any of the others and the thought occurred to her that perhaps—no, this can't be, it can't—just perhaps, some of them were the bodies of tourists and townspeople who had disappeared over the past ten years. People reported missing in the area.

There were five corpses laid out at the side of the pool. One of then had to be Edd Burdette. Joe's father, Sam's father, the very man he had idolized for all these years, the man he swore Scotland Lake had killed and he was going to make them pay for that if it was the last thing he ever did. She moved up to the end of the ledge to get a better look and from there, she no longer had any doubt.

The wiry body, the sallow face--now yellowish-white with mold, the sparse white hair and big bony hands. It was Edd, all right. Thirty-five years dead and a dark circle of bruises all around his neck.

The other corpses were ruddy and wizened. They were less well preserved, though no less lovingly cared for, as she saw when Joe bent over to kiss the leathery face of one of them. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle and realized that every one of the other corpses were Indians. They had to be. And stacked on a worn wooden bench behind them were several boxes, old hide-covered wooden chests really, filled to overflowing with jewelry and trinkets and burial tokens and hand-carved ornaments and faded embroidery of intricate stitching and lacquered wooden idols and scores of other things. A treasure of inestimable financial and archaeological value and she remembered then the windfall Greta and Neville had enjoyed upon their discovery of the first Indian "chief" in the Burial Chamber, together with all his funerary apparatus and what the museum in Raleigh and Mr. Edward Kloss had paid to them for proprietary rights to research the find and display it properly.

The sight of it all; the understanding of it all, took her breath away.

Shifting about, she knocked a piece of the ledge loose and it clattered to the floor. For a moment, she thought that perhaps he had not heard it but her hope was short-lived. He stood up from where he had been doing some cosmetic touch-up to the face of one of the Indians and looked around. When he spied her still crouching on the ledge, he frowned and his eyes lowered. He said nothing but carefully put down a brush he had been holding. Groping on the table, his hand came to a pair of long needle-like scissors. He picked them up and walked over to the rope ladder, never taking his eyes off her.

Hannah Burdette found to her horror that she couldn't move, not at all, she was trapped by the disobedience of her own muscles to GET UP GET OUT GET AWAY NOW! and she sat back on her legs and put her hands to her face and cried.

Through her fingers, she could see the rope ladder going taut as Joe made the long climb up.
PART THREE: OCTOBER 1975

Chapter 25

1.

The last few weeks of September were quiet ones for Scotland Lake, as the town prepared to close the rest of its attractions and make ready for winter. There were ski slopes nearby and the growth of the ski industry in the Southern Appalachians had been nothing short of phenomenal the last few years. New resorts sprang up every year like mushrooms: Beech Mountain, Banner Elk, Highlands, Cashiers and Sky Valley. Scotland Lake played no part in this wintertime industry though, by choice. The townspeople had long ago decided that they would not give over their hills and vistas to swarms of itinerant ski bums. "Winter's for sittin' by the fire and chewin' on pecans," Louis Beems liked to say. That was very much a popular sentiment throughout the Lake.

The first of October came and Jack Blanchard still languished in Chief Mosley's jail, unable to make bail, unable to depart the town he had come to despise. The escrow account Greta had set up for him was contingent upon his taking over the management of Cathedral Caverns and Jack swore night and day behind the bars that he would have nothing to do with that. He had long since spent what money was left to him from his earnings working under Ray Stocker. He'd be damned if he'd ask that sucker for help. Chief Mosley talked with him every day, trying to get him to quit begging for pity. "You're too young for that, Jack. You're just eating yourself up this way. Why don't you stop being such a pig-head and call one of your friends?"

But Jack wouldn't listen and continued to sulk the days away, lying on the narrow steel-frame cot, sliding off and on into a fitful memory of his flying days, when things seemed a whole lot clearer. After awhile, Mosley gave up. He decided the boy would come around someday. Maybe, if he called Sue Kemmons down to the jail....

Jack Blanchard was not the only resident of Scotland Lake suffering an attack of self-hate in early October. For the past two weeks, Hannah Burdette had been in the center of a growing storm of rumors. She was normally a reclusive woman anyway--though not so much as Eliza Bell--but now she refused even to put in her customary three times a week appearance at the Moonlight Cafe to supervise the making of its sandwiches. Alex tried to reach her by phone, getting no answer, and one afternoon, even rode out to the Burdette cottage to see if she was home. He deliberately chose a time when he knew Joe would not be there, but no one answered the door and he saw no signs of anyone inside.

Hannah was alive; that much had been ascertained by the fact that she had been twice seen walking hurriedly along the side of Wickham Road, though she fled into the woods at the approach of anyone she knew. Mrs. Lattimore of the Public Library told Alex one day, when she came in for a salad and hot tea, that she had seen Hannah in her own backyard not two days before, hanging up clothes to dry and had tried to stop and have a chat. "The poor woman ran off like she had seen a ghost. Went right into the house and wouldn't come out for anything. I've never seen anything like it." Mrs. Lattimore went on to describe something else she had seen; that it appeared from a distance that Hannah had suffered some sort of throat or neck injury. She wore a heavy collar of bandages, reaching right up to her mouth and the strangest thing was that when Mrs. Lattimore had been coming around the house by the side yard, she thought she heard the woman choking and had run to see what might be the problem, only to find that nothing was wrong, except for those bandages. Yet the woman did make a strange gargling noise, as she was hanging up the wash. It became even more pronounced when she was startled by Mrs. Lattimore's appearance and dashed into the house, leaving half her wet clothes strewn across the dirt of the backyard. "It really was the oddest thing," Mrs. Lattimore had told Alex. "She sounded just like a baby trying to talk for the first time."

And so it was that the rumor began--the rumor that Hannah Burdette had had her tongue cut out.

Alex Perry had little time to reflect on the truth of that rumor. He had a much more immediate problem trying to mollify Ed Beeson, who was beginning to complain bitterly of having to maintain the body of Rita Donze in his morgue without more money to pay for her upkeep. Ed had been testy for some time now, owing to the fact that an entire cabinetful of his most expensive and necessary cosmetic supplies had disappeared, "they were stolen, sure as that body in there's dead," was what he told Dick Mosley. There was no way to account for why anyone would find it necessary to steal cosmetic supplies that could only be used in treating the skin problems of the dead but Ed flew into a rage at the loss and demanded someone do something about it. "That body's cost me more grief than she's worth. If she don't get buried good and proper soon, there ain't going to be anything to bury. Don't you see that?"

Alex did see it and to keep a major flap from developing, he took the body himself, rented an aluminum coffin from Ed at an inflated price and, upon receiving a phone call from Rodrigo Donze and being assured that the Captain would definitely arrive in another day or so, took the body home with him. Much to Bette's dismay, he insisted on storing it in the very same upstairs bedroom where she had been killed and then set to work trying to overcome his wife's strenuous objections.

"Are you out of your mind. Alex? Why must we keep that thing here, in our house? Ed Beeson knows he'll get paid; what on earth is wrong with him keeping it for two more days? Captain Donze'll be here by then.''

"I know, I know, but Ed's a little fidgety about it. Superstitious is a better word, I guess. He just didn't want to put up with it any longer and he was demanding I pay him now. The only way I could get him to put the bill off was to take the body off his hands. I think he blames those thefts he's been having on her."

Bette threw up her hands. "That's ridiculous. What do you think Marcy and Jimmy will say when they find out there's a dead woman upstairs?"

"It'll only be for a couple of days."

"She'll rot by then. Did you think about the smell?"

"Honey, Ed promised me the body would keep for three days, minimum. If Donze doesn't show up by then, I'll take it back over to Ed's and try to pay off a part of the bill. You don't want me to have to go to the bank for this, do you?"

Bette shook her head and went back to polishing the highboy in their bedroom. She most definitely did not want him to go to the bank and find out that she had withdrawn all their money. How and when to drop that on him had plagued her for several weeks.

But just the thought that a corpse was in her house, lying in a metal coffin in the vacant bedroom upstairs that she had only recently managed to clean up, gave her a bad case of the chills. She had not reckoned on this when they had moved up to the Lake. And she didn't intend to put up with it much longer either.

2.

Wednesday night was inventory night at the store but Alex had promised Paul, the druggist, he could get away early to take his wife JoLeen out to dinner for their ninth anniversary. And it was customary for Renee to take Wednesday nights off to attend choir practice at High Haven Baptist Church. Alex didn't particularly relish the thought of spending the night alone in the store, attending to customers and running down the inventory at the same time. So he called Bette and coaxed her to come over and help.

She arrived about eight-thirty, in old jeans and a football jersey three sizes too big, and now it was nearly eleven. They were both tired and irritable and the sight of half the aisles still to be done only made it worse. The worst part of the inventory was always in the section containing candy and school supplies, where an occasional customer helped himself without paying. Making the stock sheets agree with what was really on the shelves was a four-aspirin and Scotch headache for Alex and both of them sat cross-legged on the dusty floor of Aisle 6--BABY NEEDS AND HAIR CARE--dreading the task that lay ahead.

Alex fixed them coffee from the fountain in front, and set the Styrofoam cups down on the floor between them. He picked up the clipboard and shook his head. "These inventories are getting worse. Looks like a lot'll have to be written off this week."

Bette sipped her coffee thoughtfully. "You could see about installing some kind of camera or something."

"I'd hoped that wouldn't be necessary in a little town like this. But people are people, I guess." He put the clipboard down and lay his head against the shelf.

''Alex, honey, there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about." Bette was drawing funny faces in the dust on the linoleum. "I know you don't like to talk about this but--"

"Shhh!" Alex held up a hand. He sat up and squinted, listening. "You hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Just listen—there, that."

Bette stopped breathing for a moment. She could distinguish the electric hum of the air conditioning blowers. And the faint gurgle of water through pipes under the floors. The display case up front, with its watches and bracelets steadily revolving. And...something else. A kind of rattle. Feet crunching on dirt. She looked up at her husband and saw his worried look. "A burglar?"

Alex put his fingers to his lips. "Maybe," he whispered. "Stay here." He got to his feet and slipped down the aisle into the back, where he had a pistol concealed in the file drawer of his desk. He groped in the dark for it, and soon felt the reassuring heft of its cool metal grip in his hands. The noise seemed to be coming from behind the store, probably from that alley that ran along the backs of the storefronts. He saw Bette standing in the doorway to the offices, peering through the little glass. He motioned her to get down and when she had disappeared, he moved cautiously and silently further down the short hall.

There was a door leading out into the alley on the other side of the bathroom. Several half-full plastic garbage bins were next to it and one of them had to be moved a bit in order to get the door open.

Alex fumbled awkwardly with his keys in the darkness and finally found one that fit the lock. He turned it slowly, squeezing the handle so hard his sweaty hand stuck momentarily to the metal. He had forgotten to remove the safety on the pistol and with the blood roaring in his ears, he carefully pulled the door open.

It was black outside and for a second, he could see nothing. Gradually, his eyes adjusted to the outlines of the foliage across the dirt path, the end of the woods that ran right up practically to the square. He stuck his head out and came face to face with another man.

He was so startled that he nearly dropped the pistol. He swallowed hard and for the next few seconds, the two men studied each other. Neither of them blinked.

He was a stocky man, but tall and imposing, with bristly gray-white hair and a dark, deeply-lined face. His teeth were crooked and, in the shaft of light coming from the windows of the Moonlight Cafe a few feet up the alley, Alex could see they were stained brown. The man smelled of raw fish and too many cigarettes. He stuck out a big calloused hand.

"I'm Rodrigo Donze." The voice was harsh, gruff, a blend of several accents Alex could not identify. They shook hands and Alex sighed. He tucked the pistol in his back pocket, hoping Donze had not seen it.

"You scared me, prowling around like that. Come on in. We thought you were a burglar." He held the door open and the Captain squeezed in. He was even bigger than Alex had first thought, completely filling the doorway.

"No one answered my knock on the front door," he explained. "I heard voices in the back, so I came around to see if I could get your attention. Sorry." He shrugged and Alex saw that he was shouldering a large duffel bag.

"Can I help you with that?"

"No, gracias, I can manage." There was also a sizeable bulk under Donze's jacket and as he was leading him back up front, he saw the white of a large bandage wrapped about the left side of his chest, visible through the unzippered part of his jacket.

"I hope you've recovered from your accidents. My wife and I were afraid you might never come."

"So was I. Senor. I left the hospital without anyone's permission."

"You'll be okay?"

"Yes, yes, no need to worry. It was important that I get here as soon as possible; but fate saw to it I was delayed. My apologies."

They pushed through the swinging door. "Bette, you can come out now." She appeared from around the corner of a shelf, hiding behind a box of diapers. "It's Captain Donze."

"'Noches. Believe me, I am glad to finally see both of you. All is well with you?"

"Yes," said Bette. She took her husband's hand. "But we'll be glad to turn Rita's body over to you. You look pale, Captain. Could I get you some coffee?"

"I've got some brandy somewhere," Alex suggested.

Donze nodded, rubbing his mouth. He lowered the heavy bag to the floor. "Brandy will be fine, thanks. No coffee. And fix yourself some too. You will need it."

They glanced at each other and then Bette went off to fix more coffee. Alex retrieved a half-full flask from the desk in his office. He put the pistol back in its holster in the file drawer and was about to turn out the light, when he stopped and, on impulse, picked up a copy of Edgar Beeson's itemized bill. He went back up to the front of the store, where Bette had fixed a place for the Captain and was busy putting together a few sandwiches for all of them. Alex tucked the bill into his shirt pocket and sat down, pouring a generous two inches of brandy into Donze's glass. The Captain downed it in one gulp and while he was refilling it, Alex decided to join him.

"There," said Bette. She pushed a plate full of ham and cheese sandwiches across the counter. "That should make you feel better."

"Thank you, Senora, but in all truth, what I have to say must not wait any longer. If I am right, all of you are in danger. "

"What are you talking about?"

Instead of replying, Donze got up from his stool and reached deep inside his jacket. From underneath the bandages Alex had seen, Donze pulled out a white leather book, spotted with dried blood, and laid it carefully on the counter without opening it. He poured himself some more brandy this time.

"What is that?" Alex asked. He started to reach for the book but held back at the last moment, as though it might shock him.

Donze swished the brandy around in his mouth before swallowing. He did not look up from his empty glass. "It is my niece's diary. I found it among some things she left with me while she made the trip up here. She was looking for a new place to stay, as I'm sure you know, and she left a box full of personal items with me."

"What does it have to do with us?"

Donze stared hard at him and Alex thought he detected a flicker of something--was it pity? sympathy?--in those hard gray eyes. "Everything...."

Still mystified, Alex reached for the diary and started to open it. He questioned Donze with his eyes and the Captain nodded silently and went back to the brandy. Alex pulled the diary closer and began to thumb through the pages.

He could see right away, skimming across page after page, of Rita's delicate cursive script, that the story she had detailed was no ordinary record of idle thoughts or trivial observations. The deeper he got into the written tablet of her life, the more engrossed Alex became and he soon lost all track of time and his surroundings, save for an occasional look up to reassure himself that this was no joke, that it was all quite real.

"It's incredible," he muttered. Bette slid over next to him to read along. Her eyes widened. "And this is not some story?"

Donze levelled a gaze at him. "That, Senor, is a question only you can answer."

Alex looked up. The man was serious, he could see that. Underneath his bristly beard, he was chewing thoughtfully on his tongue. And he was right, Alex knew. The more he read, the more it all began to fall into place.

Rita's diary was a detailed record of her employment with Mrs. Lucille Perry, from her first day in January 1946, to the day of her death a month and a half ago. A careful accounting of what transpired in that house, in simple, straightforward language all the more chilling for its understated, matter-of-fact tone.

"She speaks of a demon here," Bette said. Over Alex's shoulder, she read out loud. "'There is a beast in the Perry family, a specter that has haunted every moment of my life from the first day I came to work here'."

Captain Donze nodded. "That was her theory. Evidently, Mrs. Perry gave her the idea. Mrs. Perry believed that this demon had been in the family for several hundred years, and had come down through the male line to her own husband Jacob. As you can see, they had a son named Daniel—"

"My father," said Alex.

"—exactly. Mrs. Perry believed that this beast wore out the bodies of whomever it occupied and had to seek new ones periodically." He ran his finger along a passage near the bottom of the page. "See here: 'It's a nameless fury, this ghastly thing that co-habits with Senora, an angry, vindictive, insatiable animal millions of years old. It suffers no boundaries, has no identity nor individual personality as a human does but must seek out these things from us, from the weak and the faithless, from the defenseless among us.

"Senora says that the demon has acquired and lost earthly form countless numbers of times in its existence. For over three hundred years, she tells me, it has enjoyed all the passions of a life God chose in His wisdom to originally deny it. Now I know why--."

Donze pushed the diary away and closed his eyes. "I know the rest of the page by heart: 'It is possible for this entity to take the form of any material thing, be it a fly, a flower or a man. The Perry family has been its home for three centuries'."

Bette swallowed hard. She picked nervously at a crack in the counter top. "This is silly."

Alex drew the diary back across the counter. "I wonder. "

"Down through the years, the demon grew accustomed to Perry males," Donze said. "It managed to burrow itself into each new male as he came along and ultimately to dispose of the father, the old body, in some particularly horrible way. So as not to expose the secret."

Alex flipped back through some pages. "She writes that Daniel killed Jacob. In...1932, in the winter. Shot him."

"And raped his mother." Donze added. "That is the part that Rita was not certain of. This Mrs. Perry was very sensitive about the offspring of that rape."

"Billy. It had to be Billy." Alex thought of that gruesome face and shuddered. The very idea that he might be related was repugnant. Yet, there it was, in black and white, before his eyes.

"Who's Billy?" Bette asked.

Alex related the events of the summer of 1960, the forbidden excursion into the sewer pipes with his sister Grace. And the encounter after Lucille's funeral. "He's real enough. Or he was. And Lucille really believed she trapped this beast in Billy?"

Captain Donze tapped out a cigarette from a crumpled pack and fumbled with a rusty lighter. He was too nervous to manipulate it and Bette struck a match for him. "Gracias," he muttered, taking a deep drag. "Si, when this Daniel came back, in 1947. The beast had entered him upon Jacob's death fifteen years before and apparently it was concerned that Lucille might still find a way to expose it or get rid of it. It feared her greatly. And, as you can see, with good reason."

Alex read on awhile longer. "This was something Rita witnessed herself, this trapping of the beast in the body of Billy." His nose wrinkled as he read the passage aloud. "'And I spent the night, as Senora had instructed me to, in that cold cement vault in the basement, listening to the destruction upstairs, the growling of Billy, that awful whining wind, and I was so scared that I dare not emerge until the twenty-four hours were up. When I did, and went back into the house, I found blood smeared on the walls, in letters and words that I could not understand or read, and then Senora herself, sprawled at the foot of the steps, unconscious. She did not awaken from this coma for three days and I did not leave her side at the hospital for more than a few minutes that whole time. She was whispering for many of those dreadful hours--I could not always understand it--but it sounded to me something like: 'Trap the beast, child. Trap the beast once and for all.' From that I learned the truth, which I have set down here, that the monstrous, ghastly thing which had haunted the Perry family for three hundred years was now captured, imprisoned in the soul and mind of poor Billy and that it must remain there, whatever the cost, in order to save the future for whatever Perrys might follow, for otherwise, they were doomed to an infernal existence as something much less than human, playthings as Senora liked to say later, toys which the demon would use up and discard as a child would. She was resolved that I understand this, that I vow to keep the secret and that I assist in the effort of keeping Billy alive for as long as possible, so that we might determine some way of ridding ourselves of this curse for good. This was, of course, before the beast began to exert its effects on Senora's mind, which ultimately caused her to lapse back into madness as a defense against its depredations. She was certain that if Billy should die, or if anyone of Perry blood should ever approach too close, the beast would have a conduit out of its prison and all our efforts would be in vain. And so it is, that, on this day of Wednesday, the twenty-first of May, 1947, I have pledged to her my dedication to this task, in the hopes that she will not yet destroy herself with worry over this matter. I do not know what the future will bring for her, or me, but I feel that I am doing what I must do and if it means that I too will become tainted with this evil, then lo siento, me pasa, lo siento. May God have mercy on my soul.'"

Alex looked up from his reading. Carefully, he put the diary down, removing his hands as if they had become stained and started rubbing them nervously. His throat was dry and a light but insistent ache, the remnant of earlier pains he once thought he had defeated, returned to his eyes. Just a reminder. A warning. He looked down at his lap and saw that his hands had now become fists, white and shaking.

"It's beginning to make sense," he said hoarsely.

Captain Donze said nothing.

Bette was worried at the look that had come to her husband's face. "Alex, you're shaking like a kitten. You look so pale--" She brushed some hair back from his forehead, but he shook her hand away.

`'Oh, Bette, don't you see it? It's right there in front of us, the whole story. Everything fits."

For the first time, the plea in his voice made her realize that the diary was not fiction, that it had connections to their lives. "We don't have to believe this, do we honey?"

"We have no choice." Alex stared at the open book numbly. "It explains too many things."

"Like what?"

"Like what happened to Rita, for one. Why she came to Scotland Lake."

"Alex, it's just a story--''

"No. I can't avoid it any longer, honey. It's staring us right in the face. Rita came to capture the beast again. It was loose. I set it loose--when I ran into Billy that night after the funeral." Alex put his hands out onto the counter, nearly knocking the brandy over, and forced himself to unflex his fingers, laying his hand palm up so that all the lines, the creases and folds of his skin were visible. "Bette, the demon was in me. I was--am\--the beast she's talking about."

"Alex—"

Captain Donze cleared his throat. "I believe he's right, Senora. That is clearly my niece's intention in her last entry--she never completed it."

Alex read the final words: 'The thing is free now and I am afraid...for all of us. I must go now, tonight, at once, to--before it is too late—Senora knows I—' He looked up at Bette and muttered. "She died drawing the beast out of me. Now...it's loose. Somewhere in these mountains."

"The storm." said Bette. The words slipped out before she could catch them.

"And Sam Burdette. And maybe our little encounter during that canoe ride on the lake."

Bette moistened her lips. She looked at Captain Donze, willing him to go away, to be an apparition and vanish, but he stayed and became more solid by the minute. She closed her eyes and her hand groped its way across the counter until it found and clutched Alex's. His return grip was weak, his hands sticky with sweat. "I can't really believe we're talking like this. If what this says is true, then—"

"None of us is safe," Alex finished. He poured himself the rest of the brandy and downed it quickly. Donze stubbed out his cigarette and lit another one. "The problem is how to save the town from any more destruction."

"It's vicious and jealous, this beast." Donze told them both of his encounter in the hurricane. "If he is Agou'e, then he is vindictive and very clever. I have my wireless in the truck outside, but she has been silent ever since I left the coast. Agou'e is quiet now, probably waiting to see what we do."

Alex closed the diary and pushed it away. "Somehow, I've got to confront this creature and, if possible, re-trap it. Before it destroys Scotland Lake."

"Why does it have to be you?" Bette asked. "We could get help. We could tell Chief Mosley about it."

"Honey, what would we tell him--that there's this ghost we'd like him to catch? That it's bothering us and would he please arrest it and lock it up?"

"You know very well what I mean. Why should you have to do this by yourself?"

"Because I brought it here—I'm responsible."

Bette slid out from behind the counter and went over to the front window, where she stood peering out at the night. "I don't know what to think anymore. I'm--I mean, there was something different about you when we first got back from the funeral. You're saying it was this...this demon thing? Alex, this is 1975. This is real life. Things like this don't happen."

Alex shrugged. ''What other explanation is there? Coincidence? You said I was different--explain that. How was I different?"

"Oh, Christ, I don't know. You just were. You were more aggressive, more emotional, frankly you were better in bed. I- I don't know. Maybe I liked it. I thought it was just the trip down there and back."

"Bette, this beast has been part of me since I was a child. I can't ignore the truth any longer. What you liked wasn't me--at least, not all of me. Now that I know what it is, I have to deal with it, confront it. Rita was right: this beast has to be destroyed, once and for all. You may have liked it but I sure as hell didn't." He wanted to tell her the truth about the injury to his hand but decided against it. She would never believe it. And the convulsions on the way to see the doctor. And beaning Suzie Costa. And attacking Jasmine Stocker at the barbecue. "This thing is a part of me, I can handle it. I know I can. It's like a naughty relative that needs discipline, or a bad habit. In a way, I'm fighting myself. But it has to be done, Bette, and now. You wouldn't want Jimmy or Marcy to have to go through this, would you?"

''No, but--"

"Then, no argument." He looked down at his hands again-- the scar from the injury at the carrousel had nearly healed. "Hell, I'm probably responsible for Greta Blanchard's death. And Suzie Costa."

"Alex--please don't say that."

"We've got to face it, honey. We've got to stop it before it gets worse, before it comes back. I don't want that thing inside of me ever again. Next time, there won't be a Rita."

Rodrigo Donze picked up the diary and felt its leather binding for a moment. "She was a brave woman, my Rita. But perhaps I can help too. This Agou'e is an old nemesis. I see that you are wearing the iron pendant my niece mentioned."

Alex pulled the pendant out from underneath his shirt and felt of it. "Rita brought it. She must have slipped it on that night she died."

Donze nodded. "She writes that she fashioned the pendant from a fragment of the manacle used to keep this Billy chained up. She was very concerned that she get it to you. And that you be made to wear it."

"It's ugly," Bette said. "Why do you keep it on?"

"It was a feeling I had about it. It's hard to put into words. When that iron touched my skin, I felt--oh, I don't know--shielded is the only way I can describe it. Like there was a wall around me."

"It is well known that demonic forces fear things like iron and salt." said Donze. "Any kind of preservative will do. Anything that slows down putrefaction is hateful to them. You must keep it on you at all times."

"I plan to." said Alex. At least, until I'm ready.

Bette forced a smile. "Why don't we take the Captain back to the house, honey? He must be starving. A little walk might do us some good."

"And there is the body, after all. It'll take both of us to load the coffin in your truck."

Donze agreed but warned them, "I do not think it would be wise to walk unprotected for very long if Agou'e is near. He will be looking for opportunities. Why don't we take my truck instead and you can direct me. I feel much safer with my radio nearby to warn me of his coming."

"All right," said Alex. He finished his coffee, now cold, and locked the store up tight. They marched down the sidewalk to where the Captain had parked, right at the corner of Scotland and Ashwood. Across the intersection, the neon tubes lighting up the Dairy Queen slowly went out, one by one.

But they climbed into the van without noticing it. Donze fired up the engine and they sped off.
Chapter 26

1.

There were faint lights on in the den of the Perry house when Rodrigo Donze pulled up into the driveway in his van. Bette looked anxiously at her husband and said, "Judy was supposed to have them in bed by ten. I told them they'd better not argue with her this time." It was well past midnight and she was worried. Alex squeezed her hand and yawned as he climbed down and helped her out. He was tired and shaken from reading Rita's diary; the fact that Marcy and Jimmy had sneaked out of bed to come down and watch the late movie with the baby sitter didn't seem all that important.

"They're probably lonely." he said. "We'll fix 'em something to eat and put 'em back to bed." He led her up the steps to the front porch and then got his keys out, as Captain Donze followed, lugging his duffel bag and the bulky black radio. They waited together on the porch impatiently, as Alex cursed for not having left the outside light on.

Bette screwed up her nose at the smells the wind carried. "Mr. Tackaberry really ought to get that septic tank fixed. It's getting worse."

Donze hadn't heard her. Instead, he stepped off the porch back into the yard and sniffed the air some more. Puzzled, Bette watched him for a few seconds.

"Hear that?" he said, finally. He clutched his radio a little tighter; with his little finger, he switched it on and the crackle of static startled Bette.

"What?"

"Come out here and listen."

Alex had gotten the door open but Bette didn't follow him inside. She could hear the sounds of the TV set drifting out but above that, there was something else. She came down the steps and stood next to Donze in the grass. The distant rumble became more distinct.

"Thunder?"

"Maybe," said Donze. "Could be horses." There was a fluttering sound too, the steady drumming of wings beating against the air. The air had grown noticeably colder since they had gotten out of the van.

"I don't think I like this, Captain Donze." The radio static shifted in pitch even as she spoke. Both of them stared for a few moments at the device. Donze held it up close to his ear. He listened. Bette heard nothing but more static: bursts and pops and scratchy growlings, nothing definable. She watched the Captain's expression slowly change. A faint smile came to his lips.

"Agou'e is near," he whispered. Switching off the radio, he motioned for Bette to go on into the house. A minute later, he followed. Bette shut the door and locked it securely. For good measure, she put up the chain as well.

Jimmy was lying on his stomach in front of the TV, where the dim flickerings of the Wolfman leering at the camera from behind a tree filled the screen. "Aw, Dad, it's almost over. Just another ten minutes, then I promise. I'll be asleep before you know it."

"Yeah," said Marcy. "We never get to stay up late."

"That's because you're such grouches the next day. And you didn't mind Judy like I told you to." She reached into her purse and fished out a five-dollar bill. "Here you go, honey. Tell your mother we appreciate your coming over on such short notice."

The Palmer girl was a pert, freckled blond. She clutched the money and eyed Donze warily. "It's no problem, Miz Perry. Momma likes me to earn my own money.'' She hitched up her shorts, gave Jimmy a mean stare and said good-bye. Alex unlocked the door to let her out.

After she was gone, Bette introduced Captain Donze and Marcy and Jimmy both stood up to shake his hand. Marcy was fascinated with the Captain's generous beard, which brought laughs to everyone, and Donze squatted down to let her run her fingers through the hair. Her eyes widened when she felt how stiff and wiry it was.

She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head. "Is that a Brillo pad?" Donze stood up laughing and Bette scolded her.

"Marcy, now hush. Captain Donze is going to be our guest tonight."

"Is he gonna take that body away?" Jimmy asked.

There was a moment of silence, and Jimmy realized he had said something wrong. He scuffed at the edge of the rug with his toes and looked down. Alex massaged his neck sympathetically. "Yeah. That's what he's here for." And about time, too. We've had enough corpses around here for awhile. "Look, you and Marcy can stay up and see the end of the movie on one condition,"

"What?" asked Marcy.

"That you and your brother don't get into any fights and go right to bed when it's over. Agreed?"

"Agreed." said Jimmy. "Thanks a lot." He grabbed his sister's pajama sleeve and tugged her back down to the floor, where they spread out on their stomachs a few feet in front of the TV. They were soon engrossed in the movie again and oblivious to everything else.

"Come on into the kitchen, Captain Donze," Bette said, "and let me fix you a proper drink."

`'Can I take that bag for you?" Alex asked.

Donze shook his head. "No, gracias. I can manage it.''

They strolled into the kitchen and Bette fixed them drinks. Donze took a Bourbon and water.

"You have fine children." he told them, after finishing the drink and gratefully accepting a refill. He hoisted the radio up onto the table and started to turn it on, but thought better of it. His finger played with the other dials. Alex noticed the tuning indicator didn't move no matter how far he tuned the dial. "They are happy here?"

"They seem to be," Bette said. She rubbed her eyes wearily, thinking she probably looked like hell. It's this jersey. "We originally came up here for them, as much as anything else."

Alex nodded and sipped his Scotch. ''We used to think it was a great place to raise kids."

"And now?"

Alex shrugged. "Our opinions have changed somewhat." He glanced over at Bette. "It's possible we won't be staying here much longer. I've been giving some thought to going back to Atlanta."

Bette smiled inside but did not return the glance. She doodled with her finger along the grain of the table.

"Perhaps, that is best for you," Donze said. "But this Agou'e will not give up easily. I can assure you of that. If my niece was right and this beast has been a part of your family for generations, then you will not be rid of him without a struggle."

"I'm willing to do anything," Alex said. "And I don't want Jimmy or Marcy to ever know a thing about this. They're too young; they wouldn't understand. One way or another, we're going to destroy this beast."

Donze was staring at the radio face. "You will never destroy it, my friend. You can only capture it for a time. Perhaps there is a way to immobilize it but I have no idea what that might be. In a way, I owe the beast my life."

"Please." said Bette. "let's don't talk this way. It gives me the creeps."

Donze took a deep breath. "If I may, I would like to see the body now."

"Of course," said Alex. They got up together. "Honey, why don't you see about getting the kids to bed? We'll be back in a few minutes."

Bette followed them out and watched them climb the stairs. In her mind. she saw more vividly than she wanted to the image of that first horrible discovery--Rita decapitated, mangled and mauled into a bloody mess. Rita sprawled across the bedsheets like a broken doll. That was upstairs in her house, lying in a metal box, and she had been living with it for several days now. What's the matter with me--am I getting used to it? She tore herself away from the bannister and said, "Okay, gang, movie's over. Off to bed. And, Jimmy, how about not leaving a trail of cracker crumbs on the way."

Alex led Captain Donze down the hall and opened the door to the spare bedroom. It was much as it had been the night Rita had come, save for the tall chest, which was covered in canvas so that the dents in the top and the broken moldings could not be seen. Alex pushed the door wide, flipped on the light, and let the Captain enter first. He did not like to spend any more time in this room than necessary.

On the floor next to the bed, now bare of all linens, was the coffin. Donze went over to it and bent down, carefully undoing the latches. In spite of himself, Alex came in and stood behind him, looking over his shoulder, anxious to see what she looked like.

Donze lifted the head panel and pushed it over.

Rita lay stiff and pale on the red velveteen cushion, her face a pained grimace made necessary by the extensive suturing Ed Beeson had had to do. There was a waxy sheen to her skin and no amount of repairs could completely cover the ragged scar under her chin and around her neck where her head had been sewed back on. She was remarkably well preserved for having been dead so long, but Ed Beeson was right. The first gray-green darkening of putrefaction was already visible around some of the wounds and even the most skilled mortician could not prevent it from spreading.

Alex felt a little sick and went back to the door. Captain Donze knelt by the side of the coffin and whispered a prayer, crossing himself several times. Alex felt guilty, realizing the woman had died trying to save him. She won't fail, he told himself. It's up to me to finish it. Donze stood up and closed the panel, leaving it unlatched.

He turned around, dry-eyed, and said, ''I did not know her that well. My brother Rafael had five children but he was always proudest of Rita. She had a very strong sense of duty."

Alex nodded. "I owe her my life." A gust of wind rattled the windowpane and the first splatters of rain flecked the glass. The house creaked a little under the gust. "Why don't you and I go to the study. I'd like to look at her diary a little closer.''

2.

Red Beavers closed up the notebook full of unpaid invoices and switched off the light over his desk. He yawned and checked his watch, muttering disbelief that it could be so late. "Shit, I got to quit this working to all hours of the night." It was shortly before 1 A.M. He got up and strolled back to the garage of the service station, where Sandy Stearns and Walt Ames were still tinkering with that Corvette of Walt's, trying to weed all the bugs out of it. He'd let them come in after normal working hours to put the scope on that kitten of an engine, thinking they'd be gone in an hour or so. But they had stayed on, hour after hour, determined to whip that machine into shape--Walt had dreams of taking her down to the Dixie Speedway--and Red had almost forgotten about them.

"Okay, boys, quitting time." Red flipped the light in the service bay on and off a few times, then added, "And make sure you put everything up before you lock up. Anybody want a beer?"

They both replied in the affirmative and Red went back through the office to the little miniature fridge he kept stashed under the counter. He pulled out three beers, popped the top of one of them, and wandered out the front door to the nearest pump island, to get some fresh air.

The breeze had picked up, blowing good and hard up from the southwest and the scent of rain was in the air. He leaned on the top of the Premium pump and watched some trash skitter down the side of the road. Up on the hills on the other side of Scotland Avenue, there was enough moonlight to illuminate the trees swaying back and forth. Gonna be a fair blow tonight, he thought. He hoped he didn't lose as many tomatoes as he had the last time a big thunderstorm came barreling through.

He downed a healthy shot of beer and listened to the liquid gurgling on its way to his gut. If he shut his eyes, he could easily see all those invoices and bills still stacked up on the side of his desk. They told him a story he would just as soon not have heard--that he was losing in this big game of his. Slowly, relentlessly, inexorably, the great god of debt was grinding him down and it wouldn't be much longer, the way things were now, before Red Beavers' Top Flite Auto Service Center would be as extinct as a dinosaur. He could see it coming, written down on paper in the arcane dialects of accountants, land creditors and bankers, unfailingly polite to be sure (at least for now) but nonetheless there in black and white. The only question was when.

He had hardly been paying attention to what little traffic there was out on the road but a loud squeal of tires brought him around. He focused on a pair of lights hurtling down the road, coming from the center of town, weaving back and forth across the center lane, before skidding through the wide turn in front of the station and fishtailing on down the road toward the Early Bird. Stupid asshole. The last place in town you wanted to be hotdogging it was right in front of the truck stop. Careless drivers had a way of winding up embedded in the side of a semi if they didn't watch themselves.

Red Beavers cringed as he heard the tires squeal again. There was a loud screeching of wheels locked up, digging into asphalt, and then the collision. A tortured, grinding sound of metal on metal, of glass shattering and then...nothing. A deadly silence. With a start, Red realized the drumming sound was the flutter of his own heart.

He wasted no time in getting back into the station. Walt was in the washroom, lathering up his greasy hands, humming a tune off-key. Sandy was on one knee, next to the cigarette machine, re-lacing his boots.

"Get your pants on men, there's been an accident!" Red snatched the keys to the wrecker from the nail in the wall behind his desk, ripping a Penthouse calendar off in the process.

Sandy looked up, a streak of dirt down one side of his face. "An accident? Where?"

"Around that damn turn. Some kid, I expect. I heard the crash just a few seconds ago. Come on." He dashed out the door and ran to the wrecker. Walt followed a few seconds later, wringing his hands dry. They climbed in and started the engine, waiting for Sandy. Red tooted the horn a few times, but Sandy didn't come out and he decided not to wait. He threw the truck into gear and they sped off, bumping over the curbstone as Red wheeled the big machine onto the street.

Sandy came running just as they disappeared around the turn. Swearing, he went over to his cycle and got on, kick-starting it to life. He revved the motor, gave it some gas, and scratched off in pursuit.

The collision had occurred a few hundred yards up the road from the Early Bird and Red and Walt were the first to arrive.

The car was a late model blue and white Datsun, or at least, it had been. Coming around the turn, it was plain enough to see the driver had gone sideways, out of control, just as a delivery van was lumbering up the hill the other way. The Datsun had spun completely around before slamming into the nose of the van; the force of the impact had knocked the van over on its right side, with the smaller car riding up over the top and getting caught on the van's wheels. Glass and metal parts had been sprayed everywhere and the odor of gasoline was strong.

Red ran his wrecker up on the dirt bank and scrambled out, Walt right behind him. Seconds later, the sputtering of Sandy's Harley-Davidson could be heard and he had to swerve abruptly making the turn, to keep from rolling right into a pile of twisted metal debris. Sandy parked the cycle by the edge of a ditch and came running.

Each vehicle had only one occupant--the van an older man wearing a white windbreaker, the stain of blood spreading out from a gaping puncture wound in his chest where he had struck the steering wheel and the Datsun a younger man, a teen-ager with curly red hair, his forehead caved in from the violent impact with the windshield.

Red Beavers climbed up onto the side of the van and precariously balanced himself on a window post to look inside.

"God Almighty," he muttered. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his mouth. "This here kid's sheared his own steering wheel right off."

"Are they breathing?" asked Walt. He tossed his boss a flashlight. "Are they alive??

"Can't tell. The van driver may be. We're gonna need some help with this one."

"Early Bird's right down the street," said Sandy. He was staring up at the mangled chassis of the Datsun and the growing pool of leaking gasoline.

"They're probably all drunk on their butts down there. Hey, Walt, didn't I bring that medicine kit in the wrecker?"

"I don't recall seeing it, Red. Where do you keep it?"

"I saw it in the garage," Sandy said. "On the bench next to those radiators you were working on today."

"Crap. I need it now. This van driver's bleeding a river."

"I can get it. if you want. My cycle's right behind your truck."

"Do that, Sandy. And hurry." Sandy ran off to start up his bike. Red called after him, "And try to get Chief Mosley, if you can, too." Sandy waved his acknowledgement and scattered dirt everywhere coming off the shoulder of the road.

He gunned the motor hard and took the turn on one wheel, a trail of smoke and burning rubber hanging in the air as he vanished.

He had gotten all the way back to the station and parked the cycle in front of the garage doors when he remembered the place was locked up tight. Frantically, he tried the front door, the doors to the car wash bay, the garage doors, but Red was meticulous about security and he banged the glass angrily, wishing to hell he had thought to get the keys when he had left. Precious minutes were being wasted. He decided to call up Chief Mosley on the pay phone out front.

Sandy fumbled for a dime and inserted it into the slot. He knew the Chief 's number by heart and, when the dial tone came, he started dialing it. Nothing happened. He got his dime back and tried again. It finally dawned on him, after a few fruitless tries, that the phone was dead. Maybe they hit a telephone pole.

For a few seconds, Sandy was flustered, not sure what to do. They needed Chief Mosley on the scene. But Red needed his medicine kit too, otherwise one of the drivers might die.

Sandy sucked at his teeth and exited the phone booth. His cycle stood gleaming in the moonlight, its engine still ticking over from the drive up. How far could it be to the station? There was a very good possibility Mosley would still be there. He could solve two problems with one trip.

Sandy ran to his cycle and climbed on. He roared off onto Scotland Avenue, heading for town. For the police station.

He estimated he could make the town square in two or three minutes, if he didn't wait for the lights or run into a big trailer grumbling through the center of town, as they liked to do early in the morning. He twisted the handle to get a little more speed and squinted in the wind, wishing he'd picked up his helmet before he'd taken off. The breeze was blowing across the road and he had a little trouble keeping the cycle centered. There was sand strewn all over the asphalt and the cycle wanted to slide. He leaned over, into the wind, to keep his balance.

The first of the gusts hit him just as the darkened Skyline Bottle Shop was flashing by. The bike squirreled a bit on the sand but fortunately found traction a second later. But the gusts kept up and the wind groaned as it came flooding down the street. He went airborne for awhile at the bump on the other side of the bottle shop and came down sideways, nearly losing it. To make matters worse, the gusts were variable, blowing from any direction and his throat tightened as the rising whine was drowned out by the rhythmic beating of heavy wings.

He chanced a look around, not daring to move his eyes from the road for more than a second, and was startled to see a vast flock of birds, crows from the looks of them, streaming by a few dozen feet overhead. Even as he gawked at the sight, a group of the birds detached themselves from the main flock and dove at his head.

He ran the cycle up the stone steps of the square itself, fighting off the birds with one hand, before losing the battle and plowing right through the flower beds and over the concrete pedestal where a new statue of Daniel Boone was scheduled to be erected.

The last thing he saw before the cycle came down on his head was the cackling black face of a single crow, now on the ground, prancing like a dog as it strutted arrogantly across the grass toward him.
Chapter 27

1.

Bette yawned as she came into the study and plunked herself down on the couch next to her husband. The lights were low--only the lamp on the end table was on--as Alex read further in Rita's diary. Across the room, Rodrigo Donze clinked the ice cubes in his third bourbon as he perused the long row of books above the stereo console. The glass shutters on the shelves rattled again as more thunder pealed across the ridge. The rain sounded like nails being driven against the window.

"Aren't you two going to go to bed tonight?" she asked. She gently massaged Alex's neck and shoulders. "It's almost 2 A.M."

Captain Donze turned around. Bette was shocked at his appearance--he was haggard and fatigued and the shadows emphasized the deep lines in his face. He shifted about uncomfortably as he rubbed his hands through his beard.

"I expect that Agou'e has other plans for us, Senora." He swirled the bourbon in the light and drank some more, wincing as it went down.

"Where are we going to put him, honey? We can't very well give him the guest room, not with that...thing...in there."

Alex folded the page he was reading over and shut the book, laying it down on the couch between them. He lay back and closed his eyes. "There's the sofa downstairs. In the den, if he doesn't mind."

Donze waved his hand. ''Don't worry about me. I will be with my radio tonight anyway.''

"You both need some--" she stopped in mid-sentence. Something shattered downstairs. Alex sat upright on the sofa, straining to hear over the storm outside.

"Must be Jimmy into something," he muttered. He started to get up but Bette wouldn't release his arm.

"Honey, be careful."

He slipped out of her grasp and went to the door, opening it slowly. Donze was right behind him, his eyes narrowed. Alex felt the Captain's hot, stale breath on his neck. "You stay here," he mouthed, "with her." Donze nodded his assent and hovered in the doorway as Alex quietly padded down the hall to the staircase.

He gripped the railing firmly and took the first step, which creaked under his weight. He paused there, one foot poised for the next step, pulse racing, as he listened for anything unusual. He thought he could detect, just for a brief moment, the rustle of wet clothes, swishing across the floor below. He took another step.

The rustling stopped. Alex paused at the second step, squatting down to peer through the railing, scanning the den for anything unusual. Though he couldn't be sure, he thought for a moment that coffee table was slightly askew, as if someone had bumped into it. He'd traveled these stairs countless times since they had moved in; it seemed as if the stack of books on the edge of the table was canted at a different angle. A little thing, really....

He took another step, then another, listening for the telltale signs of breathing. There. Something. He held his own breath for a few moments and realized he had heard his own breathing. He snorted softly at his fear.

He had never really believed it could be Jimmy or Marcy. Something in the back of his mind told him to take precaution; he hadn't come storming blindly down the stairs for that very reason. But now he was beginning to feel a little foolish. With every step he took, he was more and more sure it was nothing. Maybe Bette had left the window above the kitchen sink ajar and the wind had blown a glass off the counter. He stood up, finding comfortable logic to that explanation.

Alex was all the way to the bottom of the stairs before he saw the man. Just a blur, really, a black shape diving behind the red wing chair beside the fireplace. For an instant, Alex froze, thinking. He was sure he had recognized the man.

That was one instant Alex would later regret having taken.

It was Joe Burdette, crouching in the shadows between the chair and fireplace. But by the time his mind had registered that fact, the arrow had been launched on its way and Alex could not react in time. Only Joe's violent lurch behind the chair had thrown his aim off.

The arrow clipped Alex on the left shoulder, drawing an immediate spurt of blood and a little yelp of pain. He grabbed his arm, feeling a spreading numbness growing outward from the wound. His arm jerked crazily and went limp and he told himself: Poison! He spied Joe Burdette kneeling behind the chair restringing his bow, clad completely in black from head to foot. He was about to say something, to march right over there and put a stop to this little game but when he saw the look on Burdette's face as he leveled the bow and took aim again, he gave up that idea in a hurry and dove for the light switch. He knocked a framed picture from the wall hitting it and the room was instantly plunged into darkness. Another arrow swooshed right by his face as he lay slumped against the wall, fighting the growing deadness in his arm and shoulder. He dropped to the floor and scuttled over behind an old etagere, to make himself as small a target as possible.

The next few seconds seemed to last forever. He felt faint and tired and his head started throbbing. He wasn't sure what to do next. Through the etagere, he could detect movement on the other side of the room. Wet clothes rustling again. And then it came--an unearthly growl, unlike any he had ever heard before. It seemed to fill the room from all directions, to seep in through the cracks of the walls, to filter up from the floor. A savage, inhuman sound that made him shudder and flinch, feeling trapped in the maws of some grotesque alien thing, a sound that he couldn't even have imagined in his worst nightmares. It came again, with more volume, and Alex wondered. Has this Agou'e gotten into Joe Burdette?

"Alex, honey, what's going on down there?" It was Bette standing with her hands on her hips at the top of the stairs, staring down into the darkened den. "Alex...."

"GET BACK!" he yelled. "Stay upstairs!"

She gasped as the growl came once more and fled the scene immediately, her face a clash of horror and worry. Good girl, Alex thought. He staggered to his feet, his left arm now limp and useless, and tried to take stock of the situation.

The main thing in his advantage was that he knew the house and Joe Burdette did not. Just about cancelling that advantage though was the fact that he had no weapon and Joe did. The last thing he wanted was to give Joe a chance to get upstairs. Somehow, he had to draw the madman away from the staircase, maybe into the kitchen or the pantry or the dining room with all that furniture, anywhere, maybe even the basement, but anywhere except the staircase.

He steadied his breathing, trying to squint in the darkness by what little light came from upstairs but he could see nothing. With Joe decked out in black, the best he could hope for was to catch him in motion and hope to dodge the shot in time. It wasn't much.

The swinging saloon-type door leading into the kitchen was no more than ten feet away. Alex leaned against the wall, trying to keep his balance, fighting the dizziness that had now overtaken him. The kitchen overhead light was off but the fluorescent tube over the sink was still on. He knew he'd have to get that far before Joe could shoot. Otherwise....

He sucked in some breaths, taking short, soft gulps so as not to give himself away and when he felt ready, he bent over and scrambled crab-like across the parquet floor, squeaking as he did so, and dashed into the kitchen. Behind him, he could hear something being overturned, though not, thank goodness, the swish of an arrow in flight. He vaulted up to the counter and reached out for the light, switching it off just in time. He dropped to the linoleum floor just as an arrow crashed through the window.

Like a snake, he slithered along the floor, parallel to the counter, underneath the table and into the dining room. With any luck, Joe wouldn't realize he was no longer in the kitchen. He could hear the man panting in the general vicinity of the swinging door as he groped his way onto the carpet of the dining room, grateful to get off that squeaky linoleum. He had almost made it when his foot caught one leg of a chair at the breakfast table, dragging it along. He swore, having given Joe a new target, and got quickly to his feet. He heard another arrow plink off the seat of the chair.

Alex collided with another table in the dining room, banging up his knee and he swore at his clumsiness. He clambered on all fours around the legs of the table, lunging the last few feet past a china cabinet to get out of range of the door. On the other side of the wall, he sat back and caught his breath, his head pounding, sweat rolling off his forehead and neck. Over the thudding of his heart, he listened hard, to pick out Joe's movements.

The next few minutes were a harrowing game of hide and seek, of muffled breathing and wind-rattled glass panes and the whoosh of poisoned arrows in the dark rooms and corridors of the first floor and the basement. Alex was able to draw the bastard downstairs into the basement, where the maze of paneled rooms and iron columns would make shooting difficult if not impossible. He led his pursuer into and out of a crawl space underneath the front porch, through the game room where an errant arrow shredded the felt topping of the pool table, into the workshop and several times around a large unfinished room filled with canvas-covered old furniture that made ideal hiding places. Alex had lost his shoes somewhere on the stairs leading down into the basement but listening to the faint clop of Joe's boots on the uncovered cement floor, he was glad he had now. Even without sight, he was able to locate and visualize where the man was going and so to keep at least part of the quilted heap he was hiding behind between himself and that bow.

He had no idea how long the chase lasted; his only thought was to keep Burdette occupied and away from his wife and children and then, if possible, to find himself a weapon of his own and turn the tables. He lifted the quilt slightly and found the torn leather recliner he had been meaning to have fixed for months. Still dizzy from the effect of the toxin, he shifted over a little and realized that the quilt was plenty big enough to accommodate both him and the recliner. His head was swimming now and he dragged himself underneath the quilt almost automatically. It was stale and smelled of moth balls but he didn't care. His head felt like a big hand was slowly squeezing it. Can't sleep now, he kept telling himself. Fight it, fight it, fight it. For a few minutes, he was falling down a deep, deep hole, corkscrewing like a leaf toward that warm, silent, black oblivion at the bottom. Fight it. He could hear shoes scraping against cement, somewhere far away, but it no longer seemed to matter. His breathing was very shallow. The last conscious thought he remembered having was something to do with distance: how far had he fallen? How faint that scraping sound was, like it was dissipating, moving away. After that, nothing.

How long he had been out, Alex Perry did not know. It felt like a few minutes; it could have been hours. Cautiously, he drew aside the ratty old quilt and looked out. Still dark, pitch black. He listened, heard nothing. Reasonably certain he was alone in the room, he grunted getting himself out from underneath the quilt, realized he was soaked with sweat and shaking. He stood up, rubbing his shoulder and was gratified there was now some feeling in it. No more than a tingle, but something. He flexed it a few times. It would be a while yet before it felt brand new.

Where was Joe Burdette? His head no longer ached but it felt out of shape somehow and he rubbed the back of his skull gingerly. He took a few deep breaths and the oxygen seemed to help. But he didn't enjoy it very long for the still stagnant air was shattered by a piercing scream.

Bette!

He raced across the room, dodging pieces of furniture still covered and ran down the short hall to the stairs. Up he ran, taking them three at a time, stumbling once, but making it to the door at the top in no time. It was not shut and he shoved it open, banging it against the doorstop. He stood in the darkened kitchen for a moment, trying to get his bearings. The only light came through the window over the sink, a pale misty glow from the light on the back porch of the Palmers' house. Alex crouched at the door, scanning the kitchen for a weapon, anything he could use.

He had taken down the poker from the fireplace in the den that morning and had been intending to clean some of the soot and ash off of it today. The poker lay half rolled up in some old newspapers on the breakfast table. He went over and got it, reassured by its heft and sharpness. It would have to do.

There was another scream, followed by a pair of thuds. Alex brandished the poker and went out the door to the staircase. He started climbing, feeling his way up by the bannisters.

Pieces of clothing and trash from a wastebasket littered the steps and Alex had to pick his way through. The lights were now off upstairs as well and the wind outside was gusting so hard that the house seemed to rock on its foundations. A deep moan drifted down from the attic and something was torn from the roof of the house and went clattering across the shingles before the wind carried it off.

Alex moved as quickly as he dared, ever alert for what might be waiting when he reached the top.

He got there and stopped, peeking cautiously around the corner. The hall was dark but it seemed clear so he stepped up, poker at the ready, and probed his way down the hall, toward the bedrooms.

The door to their own bedroom was open and a quick check showed no one in there. He began to wonder about Marcy and Jimmy--where were they? Their bedroom was down at the end of the hall, past the bathroom, which Alex checked out. He tried the light switch and found it didn't work. The power was out. Just to be sure, he went in and looked around, opening the linen closet and rattling the poker, around inside. He was about to go back out when his eye was caught by something flashing by the window. He went over to investigate.

Outside, it seemed a vast cyclone had settled in over the house. There was a hail of debris--tree limbs, garbage cans, lawn tools, anything not tied down--circulating across the front yard. Dirt and bark and grass clumped in huge, misshapen blobs, giving form to the wind. Alex could feel the pressure of the air, straining against the glass, and backed away. A dull roar vibrated the window in its frame and every so often, Alex thought he heard the pitch of that roar change, shifting up, skipping through the octaves and fluctuating. He listened, fascinated, terrified at the violence, yet unsurprised when the bellowing of the wind continued and now there was no mistaking it; the words that boomed against the house like heavy surf, rattling the drinking glasses in their holding cups, the toothbrushes, the little shelf above the stool full of perfumes and colognes and powders, crackling off the window panes like gunfire. There was no mistaking it, no denying that the wind was scolding him, talking to him, a relentless beating, a chant that reverberated down to the deepest wells of his mind:

"LET...ME...IN...LET...ME...IN."

Alex blinked again and again, trying to make it all dissolve, but the wind wove its fury in a steadily tightening noose around the house and he tore himself from the window, knocking down the mirror with the poker, cracking it, and fleeing the bathroom out into the hall just in time to hear another moan, another wail of anguish and this time, he wasn't sure if it was the wind or Bette or his imagination or what.

He flattened himself against the wall and slid down the hall toward the next room. The spare bedroom.

The door was pulled to but unlatched. With the tip of the poker, Alex nudged it open, slowly at first and then when the door squeaked and protested, with anger so that it flew back against the stop and he stood there, mute with horror, surveying the very thing that his mind had tried to reject.

In the ashen radiance of the Palmers' porch light, he found what he had been looking for.

Rodrigo Donze was slumped over, pitched onto the bed face down, his arms sprawled. Dead. The rigid shaft of an arrow protruded from a patch of still-oozing blood in the small of his back. He seemed about to slip off the bed onto the floor. Rita's coffin lay where they had left it an hour ago, down at the foot of the bed.

In the far corner, under the window ledge, her face a mask that he would remember for the rest of his life, was Bette. Curled up, cowering, sobbing, her hands to her face, she rocked back and forth on her knees, washed out, ready to submit. The football jersey was half off, torn down one side so that one of the numerals was missing and all that was left was a lopsided 2. Even in the dim light, Alex could see the darkening bruise on her cheeks. There was another one just above her breasts.

Just behind the door, at first glance not visible, was Joe Burdette, his hand poised like a snapshot above the quill slung over his back, ready to extract yet another arrow and string up to shoot. He gaped at Alex, astonished to see him still alive, and whirled around with the arrow ready to place, all in one motion.

Alex almost forgot the fireplace poker in his hand. He slung it sideways, hoping to catch Burdette's hands and knock the bow loose but he missed and the poker went cartwheeling through the air, crashing into the window, shattering the glass and vanishing in the roaring squall outside.

A second later, the entire wall seemed to buckle, the boards bulging out through the plaster and wallpaper, cracking and warping, popping off their framing timbers like a home run ball comes off a bat. Pieces of wood and plaster and nails shot across the room as the wind surged in through the cavity. It roared into the room with such force that Bette was knocked to the floor and Alex and Joe Burdette momentarily pinned against the far wall. Alex covered his face as the wind upended the oak chest and sent it crashing heavily into the door.

Through it all, Alex and Joe Burdette struggled with each other, wrestling on the floor as the room came apart around them. The wind was deafening. It ripped the remains of the door from its hinges and sent it tumbling into the men, glancing off Joe's head and stunning him for a moment. Alex pulled himself free and staggered to his feet, nearly blinded by the swirling debris, clinging by his fingers to the door molding.

What happened next was something Alex would never believe he had seen. The toppling of the oak chest had pushed the coffin over on its side and with the panels unlatched, Rita's body had tumbled out onto the floor. Even as Alex watched, the wind continued to pour in and finally, with Bette's screams barely audible over the road, it seemed to animate Rita's body and give it new life.

The body twitched for a few seconds, as though jolted by electricity, then stiffly moved its arms and pushed itself up to a sitting position, its head hanging grotesquely at an angle to one side. Ed Beeson's suturing had come loose around her face and Rita's eyes rolled up to where only the whites now showed. Her mouth gaped open, the tongue black and swollen, rolling around as she swayed in the wind. One arm came up sharply, as it in salute, and then her body lurched to its feet in one motion, stumbling for footing, as she leaned into the wind.

The Rita-thing reeled from one foot to the other, trying to maintain her balance. A blast of nauseating breath came out of her mouth and Alex gagged at the smell. The wind gained force, tearing at his shirt and face, and he grappled with the door hinges, trying to hang on. An instant later, the wind started walking the Rita-thing toward him, awkwardly, on the verge of collapse with each clumsy step, but still it came, relentlessly shuffling across the floorboards, arms outstretched, mouth wide open and roaring with the wind. When she came within reach, Alex lashed out at the fumbling fingers and was sickened when his blow pulled her arm from its socket. A black gristly stump of dead tissue was all that remained of her shoulder. And now the mouth was working, the lips moving, forming words, bellowing above the whine of the wind and Alex screamed and tried to bury the sound but he couldn't.

"LET...ME...IN...LET...ME...IN..."

The Rita-thing slid the last few feet, lunging for his face, his neck, the iron pendant. Her fingers closed stiffly around the token and twisted at the chain, nearly choking Alex, until he struck her repeatedly in the face, telling himself over and over again that she was dead SHE'S DEAD, GODDAMNIT! this isn't Rita and by the time he was through, her face was battered and purple and swollen, the eyes oozing black jelly, her head now hanging by a few strands of thread and he hit her again, and again, and again, gagging with each breath, each time his fist sinking up to the wrist in that putty-like skin until at last there wasn't enough of the corpse left to stand and the wind scattered it about the room in a savage gust of anger.

Alex crumpled to the floor, his neck burning from where the pendant had been nearly ripped off, gasping for air in that putrid-smelling wind. He had only enough time for several gulps before a shadow fell over him and he looked up. Joe Burdette had extracted a long hunting knife and was bearing down on him.

What followed seemed to occur in something other than real time, as though the entire episode were being played out underwater. The thought came to Alex quite clearly, almost as if he had given the matter days of careful reflection, weighing the pros and cons and calculating the ultimate benefits to be gained from such a decision. But in truth, no such thing had happened--it was simply inevitable, a decision forced inexorably upon him by the peculiar combination of circumstances that his own life had created for him and now the twin courses of fate and thought had finally converged to spark the only decision that could be made.

Alex snatched the pendant from his neck and lay back to let the demon enter him.

The transformation was something well-nigh instantaneous. There was a deafening explosion--the air itself seemed to detonate with a burst that sucked all the oxygen out of the room for a moment. A numbing silence followed. The force of the wind slackened almost immediately when the pendant dropped from his hand and Alex felt the smoldering fury of a million years of hatred pumping in his veins. For only a moment, he paused. The energy of the storm had gained flesh now and he shuddered as his body grudgingly gave it to the tidal wave, its autonomic functions still struggling to the end to maintain the fiction of free will. When it was done and the cyclone pulsed within him, Alex got to his feet and opened his eyes for the first time since he had spied Joe on the prowl once more. There was a new tint to the world and it startled him for a second. Never before had he given himself so willingly to this beast--always he had struggled to keep something of his original identity--but now, the last barrier was down and he tasted fully the evil that had been his for a long time.

It was most welcome and he savored it.

Bette shrank back in the shadows by the closet and screamed. "ALEX! .... God help us, ALEX!"

But it was Joe Burdette that occupied his attention first.

The hunting knife was poised to strike but the blow had never come. Joe was appalled at the thing Alex had now become and backed away warily, the knife still drawn, until his escape was irrevocably barred by the corner of the room into which he had moved. It startled him to realize he was trapped and he ripped off his black hood and flung it down to see better.

"Don't you come any closer!" he warned, brandishing the knife. "I'm tellin' you, don't .... "

Alex growled savagely, bellowed like the wind that had now ceased, and laughed. He wasted no more time and flew at Burdette like a wounded animal.

Joe was tough and wiry and he put up a good fight but it was hopeless. Bette buried her face in her hands, unable to watch the slaughter, unable to shut out the agonizing screams of a man being dismembered, slowly, methodically, almost curiously, the way a little boy pulls wings off a fly. The sound of bone cracking and muscle tearing, of ribs being crushed and guts chewed out, made her stomach turn and she fought down a rising stream of vomit. Once, just once, she managed a peek through her fingers. She wished immediately she hadn't.

Only the trunk was left. All else was gone. One arm lay caught on the edge of the window sill, fractured like a stick, its wormy mass of tendon and sinew still dripping blood on the floor. Swollen red entrails lay scattered across the open coffin. Even as she watched, the thing that had once been her husband ripped out another handful of bones and tossed them through the open window. He paused a second for more breath, then went back to feasting, with a giddy smacking sound that made her cringe.

God, please God, tell me this isn't happening.

Something soft and wet slapped against her leg. She didn't want to look down but she couldn't help it. She opened her eyes and saw half a leg, lying on top of her foot, most of the skin flayed off, fragments of bone awash in a stew of partly chewed, blood-soaked tissue. She felt faint and rocked back on her heels, no longer able to keep her stomach down. In the corner by the open window, she heaved up dinner until her face was flushed and her throat on fire.

When she was through, she sat up, wiping her mouth and turned around. Alex stood over the mutilated remains of Joe Burdette like a lion over its catch. She shivered at the icy stare in his eyes.

"Alex...?"

Each breath he took gusted about the room like a miniature storm, sending papers and wood splinters and patches of bedding and drapery in all directions. Bette gasped at the odor of decay and forced herself to breathe only through her mouth.

"Alex. . .are you. . .okay now?"

His face had changed. In the shadowy pall of the Palmers' porch light, it was bolder, the lines stark as though etched more deeply. His skin was waxy, almost colorless, making him appear pale with a granite cast that seemed both cold and featureless at the same time. She could read no expression other than hate in that face, a depth of savagery she found frightening to contemplate. Standing there over the mingled parts of two corpses, he seemed larger than before, more vigorous and alive, more sexual and energetic and commanding, ready it seemed to burst the bonds of earthly flesh and take flight, yet she knew, she kept telling herself that it couldn't be, that this was not her husband, not anymore. But a part of her mind wouldn't listen.

"BET...TE!'' Alex's voice boomed throughout the house, echoing like the thunder it had once been. The furniture, the walls, everything vibrated in resonance with that voice, a deep rumble not so much heard as felt. "BET...TE, I...WANT ...YOU...."

''Oh, God." She pulled herself to her feet and took a step, then stopped, telling herself that she had to fight this, that he was gone, lost forever, but her mind rebelled and she took another step. "Alex...Alex...is that you?"

"BET...TE, COME...HERE...PLEASE...." He took a step, a small one, and lifted one hand to her, the first shallow crease of a grin on his lips. "I...WANT...YOU...."

"Oh, Alex," Bette rubbed her hands nervously, unsure of what to do. "What's happened to you, is that really you in there?" She stopped by the broken bedpost and closed her fingers around it to steady herself.

"IT...IS...ME...BET...TE...."

"No!" she shook her head violently and sat down on the end of the bed. "No, it isn't. It's...it's something else, somebody else. "

"COME...HERE."

The tone of his voice had changed and she glanced up but not in time to avoid him. He reached the bed in two steps and had her pinned before she could move. At first, she was so startled that she didn't react but when it was clear what he wanted, she fought back.

He wrestled her onto the floor and was inside her before she knew it. She thrashed about underneath him but it was useless; he plunged in deeper and deeper until she felt the very breath being crushed out of her. She boxed his head, for all the good it did, and tried to kick her way loose but he was too strong, too hungry to be affected.

((oh, it is indeed a fine home you've given me, laddie, and i'll not be tricked out of it this time))

In the end, she had no choice but to give in, hating herself for it, despising her weakness and yet thinking somewhere, off in a dark corner of her mind that perhaps, just perhaps, this was how it was meant to be. Love and hate, pain and pleasure, who could say how they differed? It wasn't Alex that was burrowing into her so ferociously, it wasn't her husband that stabbed her relentlessly until she ached beyond words and slipped into and out of consciousness but something inhuman, something vast and insatiable and ruthless that cared nothing for the limitations of flesh for it could as easily discard one body as another and saw no profit in moderating its appetites. She scratched at this mental wound--the thought that in truth, no matter how vehemently she might deny it, she relished this savaging at the hands of such a beast--and then the wound suppurated and festered and bled and the only caustic that did any good was the loathing she felt for herself. She fought back, telling herself she was helpless before this on- slaught and hoping that in the repetition of that thought, she might yet save her soul.

When he was spent at last and pulled out growling to tower over her, she lay still, hallucinating childhood memories, breathing only shallowly to keep under control the wave of pain that would swallow her if she let it. Her ribs had been bruised in the attack, she was pretty sure of that, if they hadn't been broken altogether. She was dazed and felt a sharp sting in her shoulder, where a bone moved in a way it shouldn't. Alex straddled her for a moment, then stepped away and stalked toward the door. She opened her eyes carefully and let the fuzziness gradually subside. But it was the sound of Marcy's voice in the hall that jolted her fully awake.

"My baby!" She got painfully to her feet and grabbed a hold of the chest to steady herself. She went to the door and out into the hall and there she saw Marcy sitting on the carpet at the top of the stairs, staring up at the Alex-thing bearing down on her. "Marcy! Get away! Run, honey!''

For a second, the child was confused, unsure of what to do, whom to obey. She stood up and clutched the stair railing protectively, her eyes never leaving Alex. Finally, when she realized that Daddy wasn't coming to give her a good night kiss, when she saw the puffy, bruised face materializing out of the darkness, she screamed and fled down the stairs.

Alex reached for her but missed, then turned angrily and glared at Bette. She held her breath, standing by the bathroom door, ready to slip inside and lock it if necessary, fearing he would turn and come back, but he didn't.

Instead, he growled something incomprehensible and vaulted down the stairs.

Bette waited a second, then followed him, afraid he would find Marcy and hurt her. She was halfway down the stairs, feeling her way along in the dark, when she heard the sound of the front door being opened. She stopped and listened. Something fragile--the glass pelican she kept on a table in the foyer--crashed to the floor and broke. She never heard the door shut.

Cautiously, she felt her way down the stairs and across the hall to the family room. At the door, she held her breath, listening for anything moving, anything breathing in that dark room.

She heard nothing.

She switched on the light and saw by its harsh glare that the room was empty. Quickly, she crossed the room, noting that most of the furniture was damaged, and stuck her head around the corner, into the foyer.

The front door was still open, and the warm, damp smell of soggy earth wafted in on a fresh breeze. The curtains by the door fluttered. For the first time in nearly a minute, Bette took a deep breath, and a wave of pain washed over her. Her head spun as she went to shut the door. It had all happened so quickly, so violently, that she couldn't sort it out in her mind. She stared out the door for a moment, and saw a figure striding down the street, toward town. It looked like Alex, but she couldn't be sure. She studied it and wondered; this can't be real, it isn't happening. God, help me wake up.

She wasn't even all that surprised when she saw the figure walk over to a car parked by the side of the street and lift it over onto its side, in a fit of anger. The car teetered for a few seconds, as the figure walked on, then finally flipped onto its roof. There was a sound of metal crunching. The whole episode lasted no more than ten seconds, yet to Bette, it could have been days. It was something that might have startled her a few hours before; now, however, she accepted it as normal. The episode seemed to fit perfectly into the puzzle this awful night had become. She watched the man disappear into the woods that separated the neighborhood from Scotland Avenue, then shut the door and locked it securely.

She jumped when she realized someone was standing behind her.

It was Marcy, still in her pajamas, tears streaming down her red face. She had a pillow in one hand and she was shaking. Bette stooped down and swept her daughter up.

"Momma, where's Daddy going? Is he mad at us or somethin'?" She sniffled and used the pillow case to wipe her eyes and nose.

Bette kissed her on the forehead and brushed back a wet lock of brown hair. "I don't know, sweetheart. I just don't know. Where's your brother?"

She shrugged and lay her head against Bette's chest. "I don't know. He had to go to the bathroom and didn't come back. I think he's hiding in that closet." She looked up at her mother and Bette braved a wan smile. "Is Daddy gonna come back tonight? He sure looked mad to me."

"Daddy's not feeling too well, honey." Bette bit her lip and tried another smile that didn't work. "He's taking a walk over to see the doctor, that's all."

Marcy seemed to accept that and lay her head back. "I sure hope he's not mad when he comes back. I thought he was gonna hit me for being up so late."

Bette took her back upstairs. She didn't turn on any lights. She didn't want Marcy to see the tears she couldn't hold back.

2.

Sandy Stearns was groggy and bruised when he finally came to. He tasted some dirt and grass, spitting it out, then rolled over and sat up, letting everything settle down before he tried squinting to see where he was. It was dark, he could see that much. And a warm trickle of blood still dripped from a painful cut over his left eye. He rubbed his shoulder, feeling the sore muscles rubbing against each other. Gonna have a hellacious crick today, boy.

Then, he remembered.

The accident in front of the station. The ride to town on his cycle. The crows.

Involuntarily, he shivered and looked around. No crows. No nothing, really, except for a long deep furrow of dirt and bushes, where he had plowed through the azalea gardens and spun out on the soft, wet ground. Those old hags in the Azalea Club sure got their work cut out for them now. Twisting around to find his bike, he spied the machine lying on its side at the foot of an old withered beech tree. It was leaking gas, but otherwise seemed to be intact. He crawled over and satisfied himself that with a few hours of work and a wash, she'd be as good as new.

Sandy Stearns staggered to his feet and stepped gingerly through the debris. He had to go tell Chief Mosley about the accident, if he didn't already know by now. Sandy had no idea how long he'd been unconscious. He walked across the street, grabbed the trunk of the gimpy little apple tree that had been replanted to keep from stumbling over the curbstone and pushed open the door to the station.

Dick Mosley was hunched over his desk, studying his next move on a checkers board, when he looked up yawning to see who it was.

"What do you want?" he growled. He had been playing a game against himself and the desk and floor were littered with empty Styrofoam cups.

"There was an accident, Chief. Down on 19, about half-way between the Early Bird and the station. A bad one."

Mosley's expression changed abruptly. "What's involved?"

"A van and a little foreign car. Two people. One of 'em may already be dead."

Mosley was already out of his seat, reaching for his holster on the credenza behind his desk, and his jacket slung over the back of his chair. "Anybody on the scene yet?"

"Red and Walt are there--I tried to phone you from the station but the line was dead. Musta been the storm."

"What storm?"

"That thunderstorm we had."

"I didn't hear anything--never mind. How long ago did it happen?"

Sandy saw the clock over the door to the cells and did some quick counting. He grimaced, realizing he'd been out longer than he thought. "An hour."

"An hour! It took you an hour to ride up from the station?''

Sandy shrugged sheepishly. "I had an accident." He touched the cut on his forehead apologetically.

"Did you? I thought you probably got that down at the Early Bird. Screw it--let's go." He snapped his holster on just as the phone rang. He snatched up the receiver. "Police--Mosley."

Sandy wandered around the room restlessly, peering in through the barred door to the cells as Mosley listened for a few seconds. He wondered if Jack had bailed himself out yet. "Yeah, okay," Mosley was saying. He rummaged for a scratch pad on his desk but couldn't find one. "Yeah, I know, but--mm-hmmm, I see, but—yeah, I got it, but look Mrs. Tackaberry, I hate to cut you off here but I got a bad accident to investigate. Right. I'll tell you what, though. Sandy Stearns is here with me. Why don't you give him the details and I'll be over there as soon as I can, how about that?" Mosley motioned for Sandy to come to the phone. "No, ma'am, it's probably nothing but you did right calling anyway. Right. Okay, here's Sandy. Tell him everything you just told me." He covered the receiver, before handing it to the boy. "It's Mrs. Tackaberry. She's heard some loud noises coming from the Perry house and she's worried. Probably it's nothing--the woman's a drunken snoop anyway--but get the facts, will you? And then meet me down at the accident.'' He gave up the receiver and slipped into his jacket. He was out the door and into the squad car, revving it up, in seconds.

Sandy Stearns listened carefully to everything Evelyn Tackaberry had to say. Loud noises in the Perry house, right in the middle of that freak thunderstorm. Shouting. Lights going on and off. Furniture being tossed around. Jesus, Sandy thought as he scribbled it all down, you been watching too many late shows. He snickered involuntarily, at the image of Mrs. Tackaberry the peeping Tom, peering through her telescope and getting all the juicy things down as quickly as they happened. What the hell were you doing, you old witch, standing in the doorway the whole time?

"Yes, ma'am. I think I've got it all. No, I'm leaving right away to take this to Chief Mosley. Yes, ma'am, my Daddy is fully aware that I'm not in bed at this hour. Right. I'll tell him you called. Bye, now." He put the receiver in its cradle. "You old slutbag." He ripped off the page and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.

On impulse, he went over to the door leading down to the cells. "Hey, Jack! It's Sandy. You back there?"

No reply for a minute, then a weak voice came back. "No, idiot, I'm in Las Vegas."

Sandy grinned. "How the hell do I get back there? Is there a key to this door?"

"S'posed to be one in Mosley's desk. Chief ain't there?"

Sandy went rummaging through the desk. "No. He had to run off to see about an accident." A few minutes' search produced nothing. "I don't see no key."

''Just forget it, man. Leave me alone."

''Why haven't you got bailed out yet? You trying to be a martyr or something?'' Sandy squatted down and started rifling some cardboard boxes inside the credenza.

Jack must have been thinking for he said nothing and the only sound was the mechanical whirring of the wall clock and the occasional gurgle of the water cooler underneath it. Finally, he muttered, "I just want to die here, I guess."

Sandy pried open the last box on the shelf and smiled in triumph. A ring of keys lay among some scraps of paper and an unopened pack of pencils in the box. "You aren't going to die just yet, bud." He went over to the door and started trying every key. The fourth one worked and he pulled the door open and went down the hall.

Jack was in the first cell, sprawled out on the bunk, his feet up on the wall. Two weeks of beard had darkened his face and he was pale but otherwise unchanged. He looked around when he heard the sound of a key in the lock. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Helping Chief Mosley."

"Helping him? By letting his prize prisoner escape?"

He worked the lock a bit and got it to catch, then a quick yank and the cell door clanked open. Sandy extracted the paper with Mrs. Tackaberry's report on it. "We got some investigating to do."

Jack blinked and sat up. "What are you talking about?"

"Just get your pants on and I'll tell you on the way. Something weird's happening over around the Perry house. Mosley asked me to look into it while he checked out the accident in front of the station. So I'm deputizing you. Now are you going to do your duty or do I have to brain you and drag you out?"

Jack sighed and smiled broadly. "Fat chance of that."

He pulled his boots on and they trotted back up the hall, with Jack still buttoning his shirt on the way. "Hey," he said, when he saw Sandy heading for the front door. "Let's go out the back. I'd rather nobody see me sneaking out of here. You got your bike?"

"Nah, it almost got me, as a matter of fact. It's in the square out front with a hole the size of a quarter in the gas tank. We'll have to walk."

Jack stretched and did some deep knee bends. "Do me good. I'm glad you sprang me, Sandy, I really am. I didn't realize a body could get so cramped in jail."

Sandy was already halfway out the back door. "Shut up and keep down. I think I hear someone coming."
Chapter 28

1.

Ray Stocker licked some sweat off his wife's nose and rolled over in bed, letting the cool air tickle his skin as he lay back on the pillow. Jasmine mumbled something and huddled closer, resting her chin on his stomach as they both settled back and tried to recover their breath.

"You were slow tonight," she whispered, flicking her tongue out at the dark thatch of hair on his abdomen. ''Got something on your mind?"

"Not really," he said. He dug his fingers into the back of her neck and slowly kneaded the muscles there. She sighed in appreciation. "Why?"

"Oh, I don't know. You seemed a little distracted to me. "She reached across his belly for a cigarette from the night table. "Was it what we talked about the other day?"

Ray didn't answer for a minute. He inhaled slowly, tasting the aroma of the cigarette. "Not really. We can talk about it some more later; we don't have to try for a child right now, if you don't want."

Jasmine scratched his stomach gently. "I do want. And soon. I'm just not ready to take the risk again right now. Something else is bothering you though--I can tell."

"Mm-hmmm."

"Mind telling a girl what it is?"

Ray stretched and yawned. He turned over on his side, facing into her breasts. They loomed pale and white in the soft glow of the light streaming out of the closet. "I was thinking about that vacation you were planning, to the Caribbean."

A little pout came to her lips. "You don't want to go?''

"I do want to go. But I'm not sure I want to come back."

"Oh, Ray..." She drew him against her breasts and stroked his fine gray hair. Her nipples hardened immediately. "We're gonna be all right, honey. Just you wait and see—it'll turn out okay. A few weeks away from that damn amusement park is all we need." She felt his weight shift as he moved to get into her again and she sank against the pillow, guiding him in, gasping softly as he struck home and slid inside. He was shivering as he started to thrust and she clutched her arms around his back to pull him in tighter. In seconds, she had matched his rhythm. She closed her eyes and let her mind wander a bit, as her body took over and responded automatically.

She wasn't sure when she first heard it. She'd been drifting lazily in the middle of the ocean in her dreams when the first crash came. She jumped at the sound of something heavy thudding into the ground outside their window. Instinctively, she had dug her fingers into Ray's back; when he didn't stop, she took hold of his arms and held him out. "Ray. Ray, honey, stop for a minute. Ray...." He raised up on his elbows and squinted into her face.

"What's the matter?"

"Didn't you hear that noise?"

"What noise?"

Another thud came, closer this time. Jasmine swallowed hard. Something was thrashing through the woods around the house.

"That noise."

Ray flopped over on his side, then sat up and strained to hear. "It's just a pack of dogs. Missy probably broke the back gate again down at the Kemmons'."

Jasmine shook her head. She sat up next to her husband. "Can't be. That was a tree falling that I heard. Dogs don't knock trees down."

"The wind does."

"You hear any wind?"

He was forced to admit that he didn't. And to admit that he heard the thud himself. He looked at her miserably. "I guess I can't have you again until I act like a man and go out to investigate."

She brushed some hair away from his forehead. "I love heroes."

"That's what I was afraid of." He sighed and slipped out of bed. He parted the curtain and looked out as he was struggling into a pair of dirty white slacks. The air was still, the trees that lined the side and backyards tall and silent. He tucked his shirt tail in and grabbed a bathrobe to sling around his shoulders. "I'll be back in a minute. Keep that body warm."

She gave him a mock salute and a smirk as he left the room. But the smile didn't last long and she was soon under the covers again, mentally following her husband down the stairs. She closed her eyes again and tried to take a deep breath. It's just the Kemmons' dogs, she told herself.

Ray turned on the porch light and the outside spotlights and unlocked the door. He opened it and stepped out.

A pair of oak trees lay crisscrossing their front yard, forming a huge 'V" alongside the driveway. Off in the woods, he heard the thrashing again. Dogs were barking--lots of them-- loud, terrified yelps and squeals, as if they were chasing something, a fox maybe. Ray walked across the porch and down the steps to the edge of the wet grass.

Whatever it was, the thing seemed to be circling the house just beyond the front line of trees. It was partly cloudy but dark outside--the moon was new and the streetlamps gave only feeble illumination. He listened for a moment, trying to localize the source of the sound.

"Can't be a fox," he muttered. He could clearly hear brush being trampled and leaves crushed--it was heavy enough, whatever it was. Dimly, he could make out a trail of commotion in a dense thicket just the other side of the wild blueberry bushes across the street. It sounded massive and the sound was growing, as though it were stalking the house, ready to burst forth at any second. All of a sudden, the dogs stopped barking. A dying squeal, then complete silence. The air was quiet, unnaturally so, and the next faint breeze brought him the first inkling of what lay out there beyond the pines and oaks, the first perception of a low, savage, growl that carried quite audibly all the way across the street and the front yard from the woods. A growl and then a few seconds of ragged breathing, as if the thing were gathering its strength to attack.

Ray stopped breathing altogether.

The fight came quickly. It was vicious and furious--he could hear teeth ripping at flesh and bones cracking. The growl returned, higher in pitch, almost human in its anguish. More barking, a yelp and a whimper of pain. Something heavy being beaten, blows being muffled, something being crushed and throttled and pounded with cries and screeches and frenzied howling now filling the night air.

Ray shivered in spite of himself and realized what had happened. "Those stupid dogs have gotten themselves into a fight with a bear." And from the sound of it, the animal would come loping out of the woods any minute, right for the house. Ray turned and ran back up to the porch. He had a shotgun, already loaded, stashed in the garage, behind the work bench. He didn`t want to shoot the animal but if he had to, he would.

He found the weapon and by the bare light bulb over the bench, checked the action and the chamber. Three shells, ready to go. He ran back through the kitchen into the living room and out the door again, pausing to shut it behind him. As an afterthought, he pulled out his key and locked it. If anything happened to him, at least Jasmine would be safe for awhile.

He went to the porch steps and sat down, waiting, shotgun resting lightly across his knees. The fight was about over. A few whimpers and whines were all that was left. The thrashing sound started again, this time minus the dogs barking. Ray cocked his head to hear better.

Sure enough, it was coming his way. His right index finger groped for and found the trigger. It rested lightly there...and he waited some more.

2.

Alex Perry knew he was losing the struggle. He had let the beast back in to fight Joe Burdette and now it was too late, it was too strong, too hungry and it would not relinquish control until its appetites had been satisfied. For the time being, he was a prisoner in his own body, an unwilling participant in the destruction of Scotland Lake.

After leaving the Perry house, the Alex-thing had struck out across the neighborhood in the general direction of the town square. It stayed in the woods, for the most part, uprooting trees, attacking whatever got in its way, and only occasionally, did it venture out into the open, staggering like a drunkard along the street curbs. Alex fought back anyway, interfering with the demon's command of his body, so that it stumbled and jerked as though seized with epilepsy and the demon had to spend precious time and energy subduing its reluctant host. It had accomplished this by the time it rampaged through the town square and Alex had to retreat for awhile to husband whatever reserves of strength were left to him. He'd make another attempt soon, though it was probably futile by now. But he had to try.

The Alex-thing reveled in the scope of destruction it could cause. Upon lumbering into the center of town, dark and deserted except for the pale globes of the streetlamps ringing the square and the swath of light streaming out of the police station across the greensward, it trudged up onto the sidewalk and stove in the plate glass window of Perry Book and Drug. Unsatisfied with that, it raced across the street to the Trimble Hotel and ran up the steps of the veranda. The front door was locked, as it always is late at night at the Trimble, but the Alex-thing laid a shoulder into the door and sprang it from its hinges, taking off part of the wall and molding with it.

He glowered from the entrance at the scattering of boozy tenants spread around the foyer. There was a card game in one corner, where Scuff Magee and the Colonel and a few others held forth their nightly ritual of Scotch and canasta. Luana Mobley lay draped over a faded red loveseat on the other side of the room, the upturned spine of an old romance novel resting lightly on her sleeping face. The wizened old bellhop Mr. Grimes stood by the counter, a look of consternation on his face that anyone should barge into the hotel without invitation at such an hour. And so it went all about the foyer. It was only when Alex took another step and growled that the first evidence of alarm spread through the tenants and Luana Mobley licked her lips waking up from the dream she had been having. She brought her legs around and sat up groggily, shaking her hair out and rubbing her eyes. Spying Alex, she sat up a little straighter, then stood up unsteadily, wrapping a ratty old stole around her shoulders and sauntered over to see who on earth would come calling at the Trimble at this time of night.

"Hey, there, sweet face. Don't I know you?" She slurred the words thickly. They were the last words she ever said.

Alex leered fondly at her and something in the way he stood there made her stop short and come no closer. She blinked a little trying to focus and in the instant between those blinks, Alex was upon her, ripping her gown from her shoulders and legs, crushing her windpipe with his elbow, fracturing her ribs before he could ram his swollen cock into her and pump the fire out, before the other tenants could regain their senses and come to her rescue.

When it was over and the foyer was strewn with bodies and parts of bodies, Alex spent an hour stalking through the dark, ornate corridors of the Trimble, knocking down doors, looking for victims, bodies he could try out and discard, shambling from one room to the next drunk with lust and hatred until he had ransacked the entire building, turned it inside out and left nothing standing but the memories of a more glorious past and still he was unsatisfied.

He stormed out of the foyer, after setting fire to the heavy brocaded curtains, and stalked off into the woods. heading for Duck Hollow Court and Azalea Circle and the residential suburbs to the north.

Somewhere a few hundred yards shy of the intersection of Duck Hollow and Pulliam Road, where the land rises to a crest and you can look out over the pine tops and see the roofs of the buildings in the center of the town, Alex Perry ran into the dogs.

3.

It was the sound of the dogs baying that Sandy Stearns and Jack Blanchard first heard when they left the police station by the parking lot entrance in back. Had they left by the front, they would have easily seen the orange glow of flames flickering inside the darkened windows of the Trimble Hotel but they chose instead to hike on foot up Wickham Road to the north, following the sound of the barking.

"The Perry house is the other way," Jack insisted, as they trotted along the edge of the road. "I thought we were going over there."

"We are eventually," said Sandy. "But those sound like the Kemmons' dogs. I'll bet you anything they got a fox cornered up there. Come on."

They stopped running so Jack could get his breath back-- he had gotten out of shape after a couple of weeks in jail-- then they heard the branches crashing deep in the forest and veered off down Pulliam toward Azalea Circle. The barking became more furious as the dogs found their quarry.

Cautiously, Jack and Sandy slipped into the woods and down a shallow decline, stumbling over tangles of vines and heavy underbrush. The dogs were growling savagely, tearing at something ahead in the bush. Their barks grew hoarse and ferocious, and mixed in with the sounds of the fight were other noises, other growls. Jack plunged on deeper, sweeping away branches from his face. Sandy hurried to keep up.

What they saw next was something that Sandy Stearns would later deny, even to himself, that he had seen. The decline levelled out into a soggy bottomland fed by a narrow, swift-running creek that meandered into and out of the neighborhood, fed from storm drains up and down Pulliam Road. Though it was well past midnight and the sky was intermittently darkened by high, racing patches of clouds, there was still enough light for the boys to see that the dogs that had broken loose from Paul Kemmons' backyard compound had cornered a man, or what seemed to be a man, whirling dizzily in a clearing on the banks of the creek, while a dozen snarling animals leaped and snapped and clung to his arms and legs.

Jack dropped to his knees behind a misshapen old tree stump to watch. He felt Sandy brush against him as he did the same.

"Isn't that Mr. Perry?" Sandy hissed. Jack said nothing. At that moment. the man had turned around, facing them, though unaware of their presence.

The dogs' attack had already done its damage. It was indeed Alex Perry, but his face was so contorted, with rage or pain or both, and so streaked with mud and blood, that it was scarcely recognizable. In the faint light that penetrated the dense woods from the houses on the other side of Pulliam, they could see how swollen and bruised his face was, with deep claw marks oozing blood and pieces of skin hanging down like cloth. It was hard to believe that dogs could have done all that in the seconds that the attack had been underway. Alex Perry swayed from one foot to the other, trying to keep his balance, trying to fend off the dogs, to shake his mangled arms from their teeth.

"We've got to help him," Sandy whispered. He started to get up but Jack grabbed his shirt and yanked him back down.

"Wait," he said. ''I don't think that's Mr. Perry at all."

Sandy looked at him. "Are you crazy, man? Of course it is." But he obeyed Jack and as he watched the dogs finally get the best of the man, and bring him to the ground, he was soon glad that he had waited.

Somewhere in that snarling heap of arms and legs and claws and teeth, a change came over the man they had once thought of as Alex Perry. They could not see the transformation directly; it was too dark and Perry's body was lost under the snapping jaws and furious scrambling of the dogs, each trying to get at his throat. For a few seconds, it seemed that the fight had gone out of him, that he had succumbed to the animals and was making ready to die, but that was an illusion. For in seconds, the man jerked upright, sitting up so violently that Jack immediately thought he had been pulled into a sitting position by some rope attached to his neck. Perry paused in that position for a moment, his shadowed face a mosaic of clashing emotions. His eyes had grown wider and darker; they seemed to have burrowed themselves deeper into his skull, giving his face a faintly skeletal look. The corners of his mouth were drawn back, so that his teeth were bared in an eerie imitation of animal savagery--even the sagging, bloody skin of his cheeks seemed to have tightened, as though pulled in with strings and cinched up. The bones of his cheek and jaw stood out starkly in the dim light and Jack heard Sandy swallow hard at the sight.

Alex Perry's face had rearranged itself into a grotesque mask of hatred, right in front of them.

"Jesus Fucking Christ," said Sandy.

Even the bleeding had stopped. All that remained of the wounds were scarlet streaks and rips, still and ragged, still bubbling with blood, but no longer flowing. Now something held the blood in, something capped the teeth marks and claw lacerations so that, even as they watched, a sickening purple stain began to spread out across Perry's skin like a crack, coating his complexion with the pallor of death and putrefaction. The dogs sensed the change too and stopped their howling almost immediately.

For several minutes, an unearthly hush fell over the clearing. Only the distant crackle of flames gutting the Trimble Hotel down in the town itself broke through the veil that had come to that part of the woods.

Jack Blanchard and Sandy Stearns did not breathe as they watched Alex Perry get awkwardly to his feet. His arms convulsed as he stood up and a twitch came to the right side of his face, contorting his mouth and right eye as if the skin were putty. He growled menacingly, a hoarse, primitive snarl unlike anything they had ever heard before, and instantly, the dogs growled in reply, and started backing away. Perry clawed angrily at his disobedient facial muscles, gouging at his eyes until they were bruised and puffy. But the palsy stopped and he then turned his attention to the pack of animals still encircling him.

One of the bolder dogs, a lean Dobermann with a pink scar along its face from an earlier fight, leaped at Perry and went for his throat. This time, it was no human the dog attacked.

Jack and Sandy watched in amazement as Perry clubbed the dog with his fists and as the animal went down heavily into a pile of wet leaves, stunned for a moment, he fell on top of the dog and sank his own teeth into its sweaty flanks, ripping out flesh and sinew as if he had just made the kill. The Dobermann squirmed under his weight and howled in torment but it was over in seconds and the creature lay twitching as Alex Perry chewed deeper, ignoring the spray of blood still being pumped all over the ground.

The other dogs hung back for awhile, unsure of what to do but when Alex Perry finally came up for breath, a low grumble of satisfaction on his lips, his face now crimson with blood, the smell of freshly killed meat was too much and they joined in the fray, diving in, snapping at each other, tearing eagerly at the muscle until it was a quivering mass of pulp and soon, the clearing was a free-for-all. Alex Perry versus the dogs, snapping, clawing, yelping and growling and it was hard to say for sure just who enjoyed the feast more. It was only when Perry finally backed out of the melee and squatted on his haunches, smacking at some piece of gristle he couldn't quite swallow, that the full horror of what they had just witnessed finally dawned on Jack and Sandy.

They sat behind the tree stump stunned by it all and several minutes elapsed before Sandy noticed that Perry had departed the clearing and was now stalking off through the woods, heading this time for the residential neighborhood on the other side of the forest.

"Come on." said Jack. He stood up, flexing the numbness out of his legs. "If he gets into those houses—"

"Shit, I must be dreaming." Sandy muttered. They took off after the man.

They followed Alex Perry along a circuitous path through the thicket and brush along the low side of Pulliam Road, not too closely, but never losing sight of the figure swishing through the trees. In the damp night air, the sounds of his ragged, labored breathing carried well and he managed to leave a trail of broken limbs and branches that was easy enough to follow even in the darkened woods.

The pursuit lasted for nearly ten minutes before Sandy realized that Perry was leading them right into Azalea Circle, following the spine of the little ridge upon which Pulliam Road was situated, crossing through the intersection with Duck Hollow and then skulking across the open, weed-covered field on the other side before disappearing into the woods that followed the curving street up a short but steep hill. They paused at the intersection before crossing it themselves, unwilling to risk being seen in their chase. When the figure was out of view, they scurried across the asphalt themselves and then across the rutty field full of trash and broken bottles. Sandy lost his footing in a gully and sprawled headlong into a row of sticker bushes. "Goddamn it," he muttered, gingerly extricating himself from the thorns. He winced standing up and continued to pick the painful barbs out of his arms and face as they hustled to keep up.

Halfway up the hill, Alex Perry finally left the security of the woods and marched toward the street itself. Jack learned of this change in direction when they paused to get their breath again and the usual sounds of someone tramping through the bush ahead no longer came back to them. Quickly, they changed course themselves, sliding along the loose pine needles of the bank until they came to the edge of the woods further down the hill. It was then that they saw their man, silhouetted against the streetlamps, his shoes clumping across the asphalt as he headed for a row of houses where Azalea branched off and began its long sweeping turn to close the circle.

Sandy recognized the ranch home with the stagecoach wheels on either side of the mailbox. "It's the Stockers," he told Jack. "Why in hell's he going over there at this time of night?"

"I don't know," said Jack, propping himself up on his elbows in the dirt. "but that's Old Man Stocker himself sitting out on his front steps. With a shotgun in his arms."

They scrambled up the bank to get a better look, no longer much concerned about being spotted. Raymond Stocker had stood up to greet his visitor, holding the shotgun by its barrel as it rested on the concrete steps. He peered out over the lawn, unsure of who was approaching. They heard him hail Alex Perry, still unsure of his identity, and when there was no audible reply, he pulled up his gun and cradled it against his chest, ready to shoot if he had to. At that moment, he seemed to recognize the figure marching toward him. The gun went down and Jack saw him visibly relax. He stepped off the porch and sauntered across the grass to greet his visitor.

"He's a dead man," Jack muttered. He remembered what had happened to that Dobermann. "That ain't who he thinks it is."

"What did you say?"

Jack never replied. He bolted to his feet and went screaming up the street, waving his arms wildly, yelling at the top of his lungs. "Yah! Yah! Chase me if you want to! Come on! Come on! Yah! Get away from there!"

Alex Perry had not yet reached the end of Raymond Stocker's driveway. He stopped in the middle of the street and crouched at the sudden appearance of Jack Blanchard. Ray Stocker stood where he was, by the end of the row of hedges, shotgun still cradled, mouth wide open in astonishment.

Jack ran as close as he dared, making sure he had Perry's attention. It was a lot closer than he really wanted to and, as he veered off at the last second, heading back toward the woods away from the Stocker house, he got a good look at that ghastly face that Raymond Stocker would soon have encountered. It was fanged and veined and swollen out of all recognition, and just as he had hoped, those lifeless black eyes caught his and fixed a savage stare on him. Alex Perry whirled around as Jack passed by and reached out to snag his arm. But Jack escaped his grasp as he stumbled over the curb. He clambered to his feet, turning around just enough to see that Perry was behind him, now limping slightly, grimacing with each step, his face hideous and suppurating, and dashed half-falling into the woods.

He shuddered as he thrashed into some low-hanging bushes. The sound of the growl was right on his heels and he dove blindly ahead, laughing under his breath, smashing through branches and thickets, thinking You dumb monster I got you away from those houses, falling forward, crawling on hands and knees, seeing Greta's face in the bier before the casket was finally closed, seeing the pictures Chief Mosley had shown him of his mother strung up like a slab of beef, impaled in the Indian Tombs of the Caverns, her ruddy, Rocky Mountain face puffed like a balloon when that iron spike went into her gut, pitching forward across a ditch he didn't see, spraining his ankle and twisting over on his back in pain just in time to see the Perry-thing looming out of the darkness like a TV dragon coming to life and then the switch. He hadn't meant for his mind to do that--it wasn't the way he'd figured he'd die, when his time came. Oh, there were lots of ways to go; he'd once told Sandy he'd buy it in a crash of flaming metal and exploding bombs, the way any good pilot should find his eternal glory. And there were lots of days, in that rat motel of a prison cell on the bonny, bonny banks of the Red River, when he figured he'd just show 'em all and quietly expire before they could re-charge the cattle prods and barbecue his balls for fun and profit like they had so many times those first wonderful weeks. Lots and lots and lots of ways to take the Elevator up to you know where but not this way, for Chrissakes, not flat on his back, with some man-beast slobbering all over him. It was almost funny when you thought about it--it's a fucking shame we can't sign a form and die the way we want to--and the last thing on earth he wanted to see was his mother, a homey, hangdog face staring down at him, pasted like a cardboard mask on the drooling maggoty head of this reject from the monster's union, just staring at him the way she always did, that look on her face that always said, "I'll love you no matter where you go or what you do, son, you're mine and I'm not giving you up ever,"---oh, PLEASE! Mother, do you mind if I die in peace, do you mind?

The demons got Daddy and the demons got Mommy and now the demons got bad old Jack...you always did try to love me to death, you old witch.

The scream, when it came, was muffled and short. Ray Stocker came running, holding his gun up in the air by its butt, yelling at Sandy Stearns. "What the hell's going on, son? What's got into you boys? Have you finally gone crazy?" He caught up to Sandy and they ran as fast as they could toward the woods, toward the sound of the throttled gasps and groans coming out of that patch of woody darkness. "God Almighty, I must be dreaming."

Sandy was panting and wild-eyed, almost crying, as he dove into the forest. "Shut up! Just shut up! He just saved your frigging life and all you can do is whine!"

They scrambled through the underbrush for a few minutes until they found him, lying on the other side of a rotted-out old log. Even in the dark, they could see his head had been nearly wrenched off--the body was still quivering, twitching on its side, with the head stretched around at an unnatural angle, eyes wide open. Jack's mouth formed a silent scream and his arms were still raised, as if to ward another yet another powerful blow. A steady stream of blood gushed out of the corner of his mouth.

Raymond Stocker dropped his shotgun in the dirt and turned his head. "Goddamn," he muttered.

Sandy kneeled next to his friend, sobbing, and cradled what was left of the head. "Jack, you shithead. Jack, come back. You stupid bastard." He raked up some dirt with his fingers and flung it angrily away.

They both heard the slobbery giggle a few dozen yards deeper in the woods. Stocker looked up. He grabbed his shotgun and cocked it. The giggle faded to snickering, then to silence. Something heavy and clumsy went crashing through the branches ahead of them. "I'll bring him back," Stocker said. He stood up but Sandy grabbed his leg and held him down.

"Forget it, man. just forgot it. That ain't no teddy bear out there. Just help me get Jack inside and we'll call Chief Mosley. It's gonna take a frigging posse to bring that sucker in."

Stocker swayed uncertainly for a moment, then decided Sandy was right. "Take him to my house. Come on, give me a hand." He slung the shotgun over his shoulder and squatted down to get an arm under Jack's shoulders. His head rolled sickeningly as they hoisted him up, Sandy at the feet. He was heavy and slippery and pine needles and leaves kept falling into his face and sticking there. But they managed somehow anyway.

All the way across the street and up the driveway, Raymond Stocker never dared look down at the load he was carrying. He just couldn't stomach the look on Jack's face.

4.

Dick Mosley checked his watch the moment he pulled up at the scene of the accident. It was almost 2:30 in the morning and the fog rolling in off the lake made visibility along the southern stretches of U.S. 19 worse by the minute. As he got out, he stood beside his cruiser for a moment, surveying the site of the collision. It was almost theatrical, he decided. Thick mist reflecting blue and red and white lights. Wraithlike figures slithering through the gloom. Dis- embodied voices, nervous and strained. Hell of a place for a crash, he thought. I couldn't have picked a better place myself. A twisting downgrade coming out of the center of town. Rock cliffs on one side, a steep ravine on the other. Heavy truck traffic at all hours of the night and day.

Mosley shivered. It was all far, far too familiar.

Walt Ames spied him standing there and came running. His hair was slick with mist and matted down like a dog just out of a bath. "The old guy's dead, Dick. Red and me took him up to the station a few minutes ago. Left him in the lounge. The kid's got a pulse, a weak one. He's over alongside that ditch, with Red."

"Let me see," Mosley said. They trotted over to where a body lay covered with jackets and blankets. Mosley stooped down to see.

Red Beavers' torrid face materialized out of the fog. He squatted down next to the Chief. "Ever seen him before?" he asked.

Mosley studied the curly red hair and the sharp features. "Nope. Not that I remember." The boy looked to be eighteen, maybe older. His face had been badly bludgeoned from impact with the steering wheel and windshield of the Datsun. The bruises were dark and spreading. "Looks like a skull fracture to me."

"That's what we thought. Doc Haley is on his way right now. Shoulda been here ten minutes ago."

"Can you tell what happened?"

Red described what he had heard, standing out by the pump island of the Top Flite as he was closing up. He gave his opinion on how the accident developed, with Mosley grunting his assent most of the time. When he was done, Mosley touched the boy along his cheek bone and felt the skin give way slightly. "He's going into shock. Doc Haley may be too late." Mosley stood up wearily and rubbed his eyes. "There's not much more I can do here for now. I got another call just before I left the station. Something crazy's going on at the Perry household."

Red squinted at him. ''The Perrys?"

"Evelyn Tackaberry called me and screamed hysterically for five minutes. The best I could make out of it, there's been some loud noises, screams, things falling, that sort of thing. She thinks I ought to investigate." The Chief sighed. "What I ought to do is go on down to the Early Bird and knock off a few dozen beers. Everything would probably make a hell of a lot more sense then."

Red nodded sympathetically. "Evelyn reads too many novels, that's for sure. What are you going to do?"

"Well, I had Sandy stay at the station and take down the particulars while I came out here. But your wife radioed me in the car while I was on the way."

"Charlotte? What in hell's she doing up at this hour? She usually finishes her last game of solitaire by midnight or so."

"I don't know but she told me there's some fires back in the woods south of the square. And there may be one in a building on the square itself--she said she could see a glow reflecting off some of the store windows with her binoculars. Something crazy is going on around here and I need your help."

Red took off his baseball cap and rubbed his bald head. "Anything I can, I'll do, Dick. What's first?"

"Get your tow truck and haul these vehicles out of the way so traffic can get by. And take some pictures from three different angles before you do. After that, I suppose we ought to see about getting that kid to more comfortable surroundings. The Early Bird'll have to do."

"I got a stretcher in my tow truck."

"Good." Mosley fished out a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it. ''Then, I want you to go get your bird dogs and leash 'em up good."

"Whatever for? You planning to go hunting on a night like this?"

"I am indeed."

"For what?"

"A fellow named Joe Burdette. It's my guess he's finally gone berserk. He's probably marching through these hills right now, setting fires and hurting people. It's gonna stop, tonight. One way or the other, it's gonna stop." Mosley blew out a ring of smoke and levelled a serious stare at Red Beavers.

Only the sound of Doc Haley's station wagon pulling up drowned out Red's low whistle.
Chapter 29

1.

For the time being at least, the demon was quiet and Alex Perry regained some semblance of control over his own body. The attack of the dogs and the murder of Jack Blanchard seemed to have satisfied its appetite and it eventually subsided into a corner of his mind while he was fleeing the woods and the body he had just dismembered, leaving him weak and dizzy and wandering aimlessly for half an hour.

When he came to his senses and realized that he was in control again, Alex found himself lurching alongside Wickham Road, his face flushed with fever and fatigue, swaying into and out of ditches and gullies he couldn't see for the fog. He stopped for a moment and sat down, scooping water from a puddle in the dirt and splashing it all over his face. The best he could determine, he was heading south on Wickham, back toward town. He sat there, in the middle of the asphalt for a few minutes, not really caring if some truck came screaming out of the mist and ran right over him. It was appealing in a gruesome sort of way, the thought that maybe he could beat the demon for good by just doing nothing, just waiting for the impact that would crush the life out of him and with it, thank God, with it the torment of carrying this awful entity around. But nothing happened, no truck came. Wickham Road was quiet and dark.

He stood up. Ahead of him, the fog was glowing orange and he shook his head, trying to clear the illusion away. But it wasn't an illusion and as he began to walk the long walk down the hill toward town, he slowly became aware of the fire.

He shambled past Orchard Elementary School and then he saw it: the Trimble Hotel. Sheets of flame billowed up the side of the old building, curling around the columns, lapping at the pediments, the balconies and porticoes, blazing out of windows so that the entire front of the structure was a wave of fire and the roof had already collapsed. The bare framing was now open to the sky and thick black smoke poured out and spread across the square, blanketing everything with soot and ash. Satellite fires had sprung up in the woods behind the hotel, forming an arc of flames that threatened to surround the center of the town completely. Across the street, the reflection of the inferno flickered in the glass windows of the store fronts. At any moment, a gust of wind could carry the fire across the road. If that happened, the entire block would go quickly.

Alex Perry shielded his face from the intense heat as he walked across the scorched grass of the square. He decided it was best to get back to the house and see that Bette and the kids were all right. From there, he could start phoning and get the townspeople out in force to fight the fire. He hurried on past the drug store, wincing at the jagged remnants of the plate glass window. The thought of losing the place after he had invested so much time and money made him ill but there was no point in worrying about that now. The important thing was his family.

He broke into a run as he reached Ashwood and Park Street.

Alex cut through the backyard of the Blanchard house and crossed Rutledge, gasping for breath but determined not to slow down until the familiar turrets and cupolas of his home became visible. He could see the house through the trees now, only a few hundred feet away, floating like a dark apparition in the dense fog and fire smoke. He slowed to a walk, rounding the turn onto Elder Lane and ignored a growing cramp in his legs as he marched across the lawn and up to the front porch. He reached for his keys and found he had none. The door was locked and everything was quiet inside. He pressed his face against the window glass and peered into the foyer.

A sharp pain gripped the back of his head and Alex staggered back, just clutching the porch railing or he might have pitched backward into the hibiscus bushes. He dropped to his knees, fighting it, knowing what was happening. With all his strength, he concentrated on the image of the iron pendant he had once worn around his neck, burning the image of it into his mind. Slowly, reluctantly, the pain subsided to a manageable throb.

I'm learning, he told himself. I'm learning how to deal with you.

But there was still the matter of getting into the house.

Alex left the porch and probed in the bushes for something heavy, something metal. Nothing. Around the side of the house, he kicked through the rock garden, now full of weeds he'd been meaning to pull out, and through the flower beds he and Bette had tended so meticulously during the spring and summer. Nothing at all. He was about to give up when he stumbled over a baseball bat--half buried under the leaves. He reached down and picked it up, recognizing it as Marcy's Louisville Slugger, with the Hank Aaron autograph, the one they had gotten her for her last birthday. Alex felt the heft of the bat with his hands. It would do nicely.

Back up on the porch, he swung the bat as hard as he could, shattering the glass in the window beside the front door. After knocking off a few jagged pieces that still remained, he reached in and unlocked the door, pulling it open from the inside. He stepped in.

The foyer was dark and he quickly became aware of how loud his shoes sounded crunching on the glass. He hurried to the carpet in the family room, and by feel and memory, groped his way over to the staircase. He paused there, listening for what he wasn't sure. He thought of Joe Burdette and swallowed hard, then slowly climbed the stairs.

Neither Jimmy nor Marcy were in their rooms upstairs and the door to the vacant bedroom was shut tight. Alex put his hand on the door knob and was about to open it when he thought better of the idea. Unless he had been dreaming the past few weeks, there would be three corpses inside. He had no real desire to see them again. He wondered what he might do if he opened the door and there were no bodies at all.

He left that room alone.

At the master bedroom, he stopped again. There was someone inside. He could hear whimpering, soft crying. It sounded like Marcy. He twisted the doorknob and pushed the door back.

Bette and the children were in bed together. Marcy on one side, huddled up next to her mother, Jimmy on the other side, peeping out over the top of a fairy tale picture book.

The lamp on the nightstand was on low. Bette glared up at him from the center of the bed. Her eyes were wide. She wet her lips as Alex stepped inside the room.

"Please don't come any closer."

Alex stopped. He spread his hands, tried a smile. "What's the matter, honey? Can't the kids sleep tonight?"

Marcy started to cry and Bette pulled her close, stroking her black hair gently. "Who are you?" she murmured. "What are you?"

"What do you mean--I'm your husband." Alex took another step but halted when Jimmy squirmed and slid down deeper under the sheets. Bette clutched her daughter tighter. The throb in his head came back but Alex beat it down. His face was hot and feverish, as he looked at his terrified daughter. ''I just want to see my own children."

"Stay where you are," Bette warned. As he took another step, she slid the barrel of the .38 he kept in his dresser drawer out from beneath the blanket. Her hands were shaking but she held the pistol up and aimed it. "I'm warning you--don't come any closer."

"Bette--" He stopped at the end of the bed, staring at the barrel waving in his direction. A knife twisted in the back of his head and his vision blurred momentarily. He swayed, caught hold of the bedpost and tried to beat back the fit. There was a strong smell of salt air in his nostrils, of damp leather and decaying hemp. He grabbed his head and cried out. "NOOO!! I...won't...give...in...."

The pistol came down and Bette's shoulders slumped. "Honey--Alex--?"

"Mommy, what's wrong with Daddy?" asked Marcy.

They watched the pall of rage sweep over his face, twisting his mouth into a deathly grimace. His fists clutched the bedpost until the knuckles turned white and quivered. He was still fighting it, still strong enough to put up a struggle and every skirmish was mirrored in his face, one battle after another erupting so quickly that Bette was never sure from moment to moment who was winning. A stream of savage grunts and growls issued from his contorted mouth, sometimes the fury of animals battling to the death, as though his mouth were a speaker for all the sounds of the jungle. Sometimes an awful whine, as if something vaguely alive were being tortured to death. Loud barks, an insistent buzzing, the sound of heavy wings beating, all of them flowed out of his mouth, one after the other, an unending rush of cries and squeals and groans so loud that Marcy screamed and screamed and Bette stared transfixed, the pistol now limp in her shaking fingers, at the full horrible face of the thing that had once been her husband.

And then, as quickly as it had come, it was over. Alex stood at the foot of the bed, nearly doubled over with pain, a sheen of sweat gleaming off his forehead, gagging on something caught in the back of his throat and Bette almost threw off the blankets and went to him. But there was something she did not like, a bare tickle of a warning that told her no, stay in the bed, keep your finger on the trigger, and don't get any closer to that thing. She was already halfway out of bed, brushing off Jimmy's hands, when Alex threw back his head and laughed, and it was a laugh so deep, booming off the walls, that the force of it stunned her for a second and she lost no more time diving back under the covers, holding out the pistol as she strained against the headboard, while Alex continued laughing and she watched with mute horror as his face swelled along the jaws and cheeks like some grotesque parody of a bullfrog.

"I...LOVE...YOU...BETTE," he bellowed, and launched into another fit of snickering. Then, suddenly, he broke the bedpost off with a loud crack and slung it across the room. "Marcy! Jimmy! Get out of that bed immediately and come to me!" He glowered at them all, with the petulant look of a man's pride deeply wounded. "I said right now!"

Marcy screamed at the top of her lungs. "DADDY, don't hurt me, don't hurt me!" She yanked herself free of her mother's grasp and was about to climb out of bed when Bette grabbed her by her pajama collar and pulled her back in.

"Stay here, dammit! You too, Jimmy." Bette glared at Alex and levelled the pistol at his chest. "Get out! Get out now!"

"I want to see my children," he said. His voice seemed normal, although strained and thin, as if it were emanating from a great distance. But almost as soon as the words were out, they were choked off by a strangled gasp, and replaced by more snickering, and a growl so deep and wild and feral that Bette's scalp prickled and her throat went dry. The normal voice came back, wan and distant, almost a plea. "The children, Bette. Let me see my own children. Please...."

"God help me," Bette whispered. She drew the sheets closer and blinked in disbelief. "God help us all. Alex...ALEX, I CAN'T. I CAN'T DO IT! I JUST DON' KNOW...."

She watched her husband struggle, his arms and shoulders jerking madly, feeling helpless, pitying the man she loved, the man she had married and lived with, and then she saw the convulsion subside, the fit pass away and he straightened up. For the first time since he had burst into their bedroom, Alex seemed in control. He wiped some sweat from his face, managed a bleak smile, though his eyes were red and his skin flushed with blood, and said, "It's all right now, honey. It's okay. I'm back on top of it now. I don't know how long it'll last."

Bette shook her head. She didn't lower the gun. "Oh, Alex. God, Alex. I don't know whether to believe you or not. What can I do? How can I be sure?"

"I know. I know, you don't have to explain. Sometimes, I don't know myself."

"What are we going to do?"

Alex sighed. ''I have to leave for awhile. I have to go away, before I do anything worse." His voice cracked and Bette saw a gleam of wet in the corner of his eye. "I thought I could control it. I thought I could tame it, but now, I'm not so sure."

"Where are you going? What'll you do?"

He shrugged and it was all Bette could do to keep from leaping out of bed into his arms. She wanted him, she wanted him badly, to hold him and love him, just for a few seconds. Jimmy's sniffling stopped that urge.

"I don't know. But if I stay here .... " He looked at his children, first at Jimmy, whose mouth quivered as he stared back, tears rolling down his cheeks, then at Marcy who brushed some wet hair from her forehead with her fingers. A touch of a smile came to her lips and he thought in that moment of the way she would always say, "Daddy, you're just teasing me—now quit it right this minute." It was that look she gave him now and the heat he felt inside from seeing it burned in his heart for a long time afterward. "If I stay around here, there's no telling what I might do."

"I love you."

Alex swallowed hard. "I love you too." And even as the words left his tongue, he was drawn again to the vulnerable face of his daughter, to her bright velvety brown eyes, her rosy complexion--how much he had always loved her--her slender neck and soft skin. He had never noticed before how much like her mother she looked, especially in the shadowy light of the bed lamp with her unusually full lips and eyelashes, the same high cheekbones, the same tweak of a nose and mischievous smirk, the very same squint she used to study someone close to her, saying by the way she turned her head. "I know what you're up to. I'm not fooled by you at all." God, she looked like Bette, and the more he looked, the more he wanted her, right now, he wouldn't wait a second longer, it was no trouble at all to imagine what lay just the other side of those sheets, just waiting for him all hot and wet and aching and--

"NOOOO!" Alex cried out angrily and tore himself away from the stump of the bedpost, ripping his shirt as he staggered backward into the edge of the open door. "I will not do that, I WON'T, I WON'T, I WON'T...."

((say yes, perry))

"GET AWAY FROM ME YOU FILTHY, LYING MURDEROUS BEAST. God have mercy on me. How long can I hold out--it keeps staring at me. It's God's revenge." That bloody Cochran saved me from the hangman, for what? For this?

((an earthly home is a fine thing, lad))

"BLAST YOUR FOUL, STINKING INNARDS TO HELL AND BACK! GO AHEAD AND KILL ME IF YOU WANT!"

He stumbled blindly about the bedroom, crashing into the French closet doors, hearing that squeal, the growing whine of the wind, the spray of salt water whipped into frenzy, the numbness, the vertigo, the fatigue, giving up at long, merciful last ....

"Bette." The voice was more distant than ever and fading. "Bette, I love you, believe that whatever happens. Bette, can you hear me--?''

"Yes!" she screamed. "Yes, Alex, I hear you!" She dropped the gun on the floor and scrambled out of bed, fleeing to her husband's outstretched arms, catching him at the foot of her vanity bench, before he collapsed completely. She helped him back to his feet and took his face in her hands. She kissed him hard, aware of hot his skin was, how scalding the lips, but she kissed him anyway, until the heat was too great and she had to pull away. She was about to ruffle his hair and try again when she caught sight of his eyes, leering at her and felt the grip of his hands about her waist gaining in strength. She managed to rip herself free just as the first convulsion struck and she shrank back against the door, choking on the smell of death flowing out of his mouth. His eyes became dark, fathomless holes, burrowed out of his skull and the rattle of something inhuman gurgled in the back of his throat. Every muscle of his face was stretched to the limit, giving him a mask-like appearance, a wicked smile that she could not take her eyes off of.

"I'll...i'll...control of this...BE...love you...SEEING YOU, LADY...." The clash of voices, squeals and groans made it hard to understand. But she didn't have the chance to listen longer.

Alex fled the bedroom altogether, his mouth drooling, and stormed down the hall to the stairs. From the other side of the door, she heard him thudding down to the family room. Something heavy crashed to the floor, then the front door was slung open--she heard it crack against the doorstop--and he was gone.

Quickly, she raced into the bathroom and stood next to the window, peering out into the front yard. He was in the yard, stalking like a cave man, hunched over, loping along through the smoke, as he made his way up Elder Lane toward U.S. 19 and the town. She stifled a burst of tears at the sight of her husband tearing through the Palmers' gardens, and then nearly fell off the stool as she moved to the farthest corner of the window to follow him as far as she could. He disappeared around the turn in a few minutes, still groveling like an ape, though the loud, maniacal snickering hung in the air for some minutes after that.

When even that was gone, Bette suddenly felt very cold and tired. She backed down off the stool and realized she was dizzy. The room spun around and she felt sick to her stomach. She reached for the towel rack to keep from falling but too late. She crumpled to her knees, and then to her face and the cool tile of the floor was the last thing she remembered, before blacking out.

2.

When Dick Mosley's police cruiser pulled up into the Perry driveway, followed by Red Beavers' pick-up truck full of yelping bird dogs, there were already several other cars ahead of them. Mosley got out and waited for Red and Walt to come up. He recognized Dr. Costa's Chevy Vega, and Ray Stocker's Buick. Most likely the Tackaberrys were inside too. Evelyn had been the first to call with reports of loud noises and strange goings-on. Mosley felt bad that he had taken so long to come; he liked the Perrys personally, especially Bette--she was one fine-looking woman--but that was the price you paid for having a one-man police department on a night like this. Car crashes, fires (he'd had to practically threaten Roy Hewitt with arrest to get him out of bed at three in the morning and over to the Trimble Hotel before the whole town went up in smoke), now beatings and God knew what else. When he got everything settled down and back to normal, Dick Mosley swore to himself he was going to stomp right into Sam Burdette's office and chew the Mayor's head off if he didn't authorize an increase in police manpower.

Then he remembered Sam Burdette wasn't alive anymore.

"Just leave the dogs where they are, Red," he yelled. "I don't know that we need 'em just yet.'' He went up to the front door and was surprised to see that it was unlocked and slightly ajar. Red and Walt were right behind him. They were met by Jasmine Stocker in the foyer.

Mosley winced at the look of pale shock on her face. "Didn't think I'd be finding you here at this hour, Jas. You look like you've seen a ghost."

Jasmine didn't smile. She seemed to have trouble finding her voice. When she did, it came out like a croak. "I think you better go upstairs, Chief. Right away. Joe Burdette's up there. Dead."

Mosley stared at her. "Dead? Here?"

Jasmine nodded mutely and left them alone. She vanished down the hall.

Mosley cleared his throat and walked across the family room, mindful of the broken furniture, pieces of glass, lamps and torn, blood-soaked pillows strewn everywhere. On the way upstairs, he passed Sandy Stearns and Eugene Tackaberry.

"Looks like a town convention," he muttered to Walt. "I wonder who else is here."

They ran into Frank Costa at the top of the stairs. Mosley took him aside, holding him by the arm.

"Just what the hell is going on here?"

Costa was exhausted, his face lined and worn. He sighed, murmuring "hellos" to Red and Walt, and said. "I can't say for sure, Chief. I just came from examining Bette. Evelyn and Eugene Tackaberry found her on the floor of the bathroom, apparently in shock. The kids were in there too, crying all over the place. None of them were too coherent, except that whatever caused the trauma involved Alex somehow."

"Where is he?"

Costa shrugged. "Beats me. Nowhere in the house, I know that much. The others have searched everywhere." He rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. "There is something else you should know about.''

"Joe Burdette?"

Costa looked up in surprise. `'Yeah. How'd you know?"

''I saw Jasmine on the way up. What's the cause of death?"

Costa snorted. "I wished you hadn't asked me that. If I have to be official, I'll say animal attack. The body's almost completely dismembered."

"And unofficially?"

Another snort. And a cough. "Ask me tomorrow. After the sun comes up." He gave Mosley a cautious glance, then went down the stairs.

Mosley found the room where Bette was staying, the master bedroom. She was sitting up in bed, clad in a lavender gown with one shoulder ripped off, sipping a glass of water. Jimmy and Marcy were in bed with her, both engrossed in a coloring book. Evelyn Tackaberry was with her, perched on the edge of a chair beside the bed. Jeanne Costa and Ray Stocker were on the other side, standing.

Mosley came in without being invited. He motioned for Red and Walt to stay out. "How are you feeling, Mrs. Perry?"

She seemed to shudder at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, until Jeanne patted her arm gently and murmured something. Bette's eyes widened, coming up to meet the Chief's. "I'm fine," she blurted out. Instantly, she realized she had said it too loudly. A little more quietly, she said. "Really, I'm okay. Cold a little, but I'll live." She braved a thin smile.

"You feel like telling me what happened?"

Ray Stocker interjected. "Maybe you'd better wait awhile, Dick. She's just come to."

"No," said Bette, waving her glass at them, spilling a little on the bedsheets. "I'll be all right." She took a sip of the water, then began the story, from Captain Donze's arrival earlier in the evening to the present.

It was difficult and she burst into tears several times, thinking of Alex. She hugged her pillow and whispered softly, her voice barely audible over the whirring of an electric clock on the nightstand. The room was still; everyone had crowded in and only the occasional rustle or cough interrupted her tale. Her voice cracked as she described the way her husband looked when he returned to the house.

"I was terrified," she admitted. She glanced down at the children, both of them staring wide-eyed up at their mother. "We all were. But it was Alex. It wasn't just some monster. It was my husband." She broke down again and was comforted by Evelyn Tackaberry.

Chief Mosley drummed his fingers on his knees. "What I don't understand is why Joe Burdette came at all. What the hell was he up to?" He looked over at Walt. "You got any ideas?"

Walt Ames shook his head slowly, staring down at his shoe tops. "Joe kept pretty close company lately. I told him the last meeting we had of the Mountainmen that I didn't like the way he was talking, threatening people. You know I did."

"I'm not accusing you, Walt. I just don't understand it."

"Me neither."

Ray Stocker cleared his throat. "I guess now's as good a time as any to bring up another death." He felt Sandy Stearns edging closer to him.

Mosley rubbed his lips. They were dry, along with his throat. He eyed the water Bette was drinking but looked up reluctantly instead, in Ray's direction. "Another death."

Ray nodded. "Jack Blanchard. About two or three hours ago. He saved my life." And as Mosley and the others listened, Ray and Jasmine related the tale of Jack's heroism, how he had run the beast off into the woods, sparing the people of Azalea Circle and losing his own life in the process. Through it all, Mosley scowled at Sandy, who licked his lips and scuffed at some imaginary dirt on the carpet. When Ray was through, holding Jasmine tightly around the waist while murmurs of disbelief drifted about the room, Mosley stood up and stretched. He levelled a glare at Sandy Stearns.

"You got something to say to me?"

Sandy ran his fingers through his blond hair and shrugged. "Yes, sir."

"Why'd you let him out, son? Aside from being against the law, he'd probably still be alive if you'd just left him in jail."

Sandy stared blankly ahead. "I don't know."

"Go easy on the boy," said Ray. "He did what he thought was best, under the circumstances. If it weren't for Jack, I wouldn't be standing here telling you all this."

Eugene Tackaberry snorted. "The boy always did want to be a hero."

"Mrs. Perry, do you have any idea where your husband went, when he left the second time?"

Bette sighed. She spread her hands on the sheet and studied the lines and wrinkles in them for a moment. "He was going up the street. Toward town. It was hard to see for sure in all that smoke."

"Did he say anything?" Mosley stooped to one knee, by the side of the bed. Bette saw how fatigued he was, how suddenly old and defeated he seemed. She bit her lip. "Anything at all, that might indicate something."

"I don't remember," she choked. She shook her head and began to sob.

"He's going to those caves," Jimmy blurted out. Everyone looked at the boy.

Mosley went over and scooped him up in his arms. He was still clutching the picture book. The Chief pried it loose and handed it to Jeanne Costa; it was open to Hansel and Gretel. ''Your Daddy told you that?"

Jimmy shook his head and looked down at Bette for guidance. She was wiping her eyes with the bedsheets. She nodded back. "Nope." said Jimmy. "But I know that's where he's going.''

"How do you know?"

"I just do. It's the neatest place to hide."

Mosley slowly put the boy back down. He climbed back into bed with his mother. Marcy snuggled closer.

"The kid's got a point," said Red Beavers, from the doorway. "If I was on the prowl and knew I was being chased, that's where I'd go.''

"It's closed," the Chief said. "Locked tight."

"So? If that sucker is as strong as you say--" he stopped in mid-sentence, with a respectful bow to Bette, "--pardon me, ma'am, that's not how I meant to put it...."

Mosley waved his hand. "Never mind, I see what you mean." He crumpled and straightened his cap for a moment. "It's worth a look. But we'd better move fast. My God, if he gets into those caves now, in the dark, with all those tunnels and branches and passageways that are in there, we'll never find him."

"You're right about that,'' Red admitted.

Mosley looked about the room. "Ray and Frank, I need you both. You too, Sandy. Eugene, you stay here with the women. We've got a few spare rifles outside."

"Rifles?" said Jeanne Costa. ''You can't be serious." She took Bette's hand and squeezed it.

Mosley was already halfway out the door. "I'm sorry, Bette. I just hope it doesn't come to that."

Jasmine stalked over and grabbed the Chief 's arm. "For Christ's sake, Dick, that's a man out there. That's a husband and a father. Leave your guns here."

Mosley shook his head as Ray pulled his wife away. "We can't take any more chances. There's been enough killing around here as it is. We'll talk if we can, but if we can't, if he won't listen--''

"I've got my medical kit out in the car,'' Frank offered. "If I could get close enough, I could get some tranquillizer into him. Then we could take him up to the hospital."

Mosley tried to avoid Bette's face. He made a quick decision. "Okay. Bring it along. But we're not taking any chances that we don't have to, understood?"

"Got you. What about the others?"

"They can have flashlights and sticks. I need as many men as I can to comb the woods."

"I meant Joe Burdette. And the others. In that room. You want to take a look?"

Mosley swallowed audibly. "Unofficially no.'' He rubbed some sweat from his palms off onto his pants. "But I guess I have to, don't I?"

"I'm coming too," Bette said. She started to climb out of bed, but Evelyn held her back. "Let go of me, I have to be with Alex, I have to go with them." She twisted her arm free and got up. She stood beside the bed in her bare feet.

"Mrs. Perry, I want you to stay here, with your children. They need you more here."

"I want to see my husband." She reached for her robe, which was draped over the back of a chair by the bed, and slung it around her shoulders.

Mosley came back into the room. He took her hands, conscious of how cold they were. "Mrs. Perry--Bette--I can't let you. First of all, it's too dangerous. Your husband isn't himself--he might not recognize you. He might try to hurt you again. He's already done that once tonight. Second, you're in no condition to go gallivanting through those damp woods at four o'clock in the morning, with all that smoke and stuff out there. Do me a favor and stay here. Get some rest and we'll find Alex and have him back here for breakfast, I promise. Okay?" He squeezed her hands.

Bette looked from Mosley to Jeanne to Jasmine and back to Mosley. Evelyn came around and gently led her back to the bed "It's best this way, honey. Let the men do what they have to. You have to think of the children at a time like this."

Bette kneeled on the side of the bed and smoothed out a stray lock of Marcy's hair. "Please, don't hurt him, Chief. He can be talked to, if you're patient. He hasn't given in to that--that thing--yet. "

"Don't worry about anything. We'll find him and bring him back." He tapped Red on the arm. ''Let's go."

They went down the hall and Frank said, "In here, Chief." He opened the door to the spare bedroom. It was dark and the strong odor of decay wafted out. The rest of the men continued down the stairs and out to the cars. Mosley hung back and waited for them to pass. He stuck his head in the room.

Frank turned on the overhead light. It was a bare bulb, dim and pale.

"I really don't have time for this, Frank."

"It's your duty."

"You don't have to remind me. I've been doing my duty a lot lately."

They stood together in the doorway and surveyed the carnage. "Nothing has been disturbed, except to ascertain that we have three dead people in here. You want cause of death?"

Mosley felt his last meal coming up. "Do I have a choice?"

Frank ignored him. He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, from his shirt pocket. "Mrs. Donze, you already know about. The older guy is her uncle, a Rodrigo Donze." He indicated the husky corpse lying face down under the window-sill, the shaft of an arrow protruding from the small of his back. The torn flesh around the wound had blackened and oozed onto the floorboards. "Cause of death: impact trauma from that arrow. Internal hemorrhaging and punctured lungs." He turned the paper over and Mosley's gaze drifted involuntarily to a misshapen lump of debris at the foot of Rita's coffin. With a shudder, he realized he was looking at what was left of Joe Burdette. He bit his tongue and turned away, backing out of the room.

"I'm sorry, Frank. I'm a little queasy."

Frank grabbed the Chief when he saw him swaying. "It's all right. I just about fainted too." He looked at the paper in his hand, then rolled it up and stuffed it back in his pocket. "Screw it. It'd take an hour to list all the probable causes of death. Even then, it'd be nothing but guess- work, Dick." He moistened his lips and shut the door behind them. "I'm not sure what we're dealing with here--man or animal or God knows what--but whatever it is, it's immensely strong. And savage."

"And you want me to be careful, is that it?"

"Unless you want to wind up like Joe in there."

Mosley chuckled and led them down the stairs. "You don't have to worry, my friend. I don't plan on getting close enough for that to happen. And you shouldn't either. It'll take more than a tranquillizer to knock off that bugger."

Outside, Mosley gave directions on where to start the search. They would start from the town square and work north and west, around the lake itself, through the campgrounds, and then in the general vicinity of the Caverns. Walt Ames would take his truck and head immediately for the entrance to the Caverns; if he saw anything, he was to fire off three rounds to alert the others. Everyone would then converge there. Mosley took Walt aside, as the rest of the group split up and said, "Don't shoot unless you have to, but if you can't keep him out of the Caverns any other way, then--shoot to kill."

Walt gulped. "To kill?"

Mosley's voice grew suddenly hoarse. "You heard me." Their eyes net briefly.

Before Walt could back his truck out though, he spied a lonely figure slowly materializing out of the mist. It had come from the end of the street and walked uncertainly across the yard next door, then stepped through the Perrys' rock garden and some bushes before Mosley recognized who it was.

Hannah Burdette.

She stood ten feet from the men and held out her hands, imploring them to do something. Mosley shook his head, indicating he didn't understand, then got out of his car and went over to her. He saw that she was wearing a thick bandage all the way around her neck. Then he remembered the rumors that had been circulating.

"You want to know where Joe is, don't you?'' He watched her eyes carefully--they were listless, reddened from the heat and smoke of the Trimble Hotel fire, but they fastened on him with a tenacious stare. She pursed her lips and nodded firmly. "I--" what on earth could he tell her?--"I--uh...look, Hannah, I'm kind of in a hurry. There's an emergency and I can't stay any longer." He could have kicked himself for being so weak, him, a goddamned police officer. "I can't help you now, Hannah. But listen." He took her tough, calloused hands in his own. "Go inside. Jeanne Costa and Jasmine Stocker and other people are in there. They can help you. Understand?" Her eyes spoke volumes and he felt sick under her withering stare. "I've got to go now." He gave her one last squeeze and got back into his car. A short honk on the horn got Walt to start up and together, they backed out of the drive. Walt let the Chief maneuver around in front to lead the way, then gunned his engine to follow. He was glad to get the hell out of that house at last. It smelled of death. In the crimson, firelit fog that had now settled over all of Scotland Lake, he accelerated to stay on the Chief 's tail. Seconds later, he saw the blue lights on top of the cruiser flash to life.

They made the turn onto Scotland Avenue without stopping at the traffic light, which gleamed dull red in the mist. Ahead, the inferno raged on, threatening to engulf the whole of the town square, far beyond the limited capacity of Roy Hewitt's fire brigade to deal with. Walt Ames squinted as they approached the center of town and the Wickham Road turn-off. The heat was beginning to blister the windshield.

Hamah Burdette walked unannounced into the Perry house. She wandered about the first floor for awhile, until she ran into Jeanne Costa in the kitchen. Jeanne jumped a foot when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She whirled around and caught her breath, patting her heart when she realized who it was.

"Hannah, for goodness sake, you scared the daylights out of me. What are you doing here?"

Hannah fingered her throat hesitantly and made a little gurgling sound. Jeanne put down the knife she had been using to spread mustard on a few slices of bread and took Hannah by the arm, drawing her gently toward the dark breakfast nook. It had just dawned on her what the woman wanted.

"You're looking for Joe, aren't you?"

Her eyes harrowed perceptibly at the way Jeanne had said her husband's name. She removed her arms from Jeanne's grasp and tapped herself vigorously on the chest, saying in effect. "Tell me now. I want to know." Jeanne looked at her helplessly; she felt trapped and wanted to escape this duty but it was too late for that now. Her shoulders slumped, provoking a look of alarm on Hannah's stern face. She took the woman by the arms again, more firmly. "Hannah, you'd better sit down over here. Let me fix you something to eat."

Upstairs, Jasmine Stocker was puttering around the bedroom, trying to do anything she could to make Bette and the children more comfortable. She had fluffed up their pillows a dozen times already, straightened up the closet, refilled water glasses, turned back blankets and fetched books, pencils, crayons and the TV sheet. The set was on now, down low, some late-night movie, a Cary Grant story. Jimmy was engrossed in the plot. Marcy was half asleep.

"Jas, you're driving me crazy running back and forth. Why don't you go downstairs and fix yourself a cup of coffee or something?"

Jasmine looked up from the open chest drawer she was rearranging. "I couldn't leave you alone up here, Bette."

"Oh, don't be silly. I'll be all right. You're tired. Go on down and keep Jeanne company."

Jasmine straightened up. "Well, my back is a bit sore." She smiled at the way Marcy's mouth lolled when she slept.

"If you're sure .... "

Bette waved her out. "Go on. We've got everything we need."

Jasmine shrugged. ''Okay. But I'll be back in ten minutes, just to see if you're behaving yourself." She shut the drawer and took one last peek before disappearing out the door.

Bette stopped breathing, listening for the sound of her friend going down the stairs. A faint creak told her she had reached the last step. She waited another minute, to be sure, then threw back the covers.

"Come on, kids. Come on, Marcy, honey wake up. Jimmy—"

"Mom...the Japs are about to attack--"

"Don't 'Mom' me. Run into your room and get yourself a jacket. And get your sister's pullover while you're at it."

"Where are we going?"

"Out. We're going to look for your Daddy. Now hurry. We can probably make it through the front door before the Tackaberrys come back, if you get a move on."
Chapter 30

1.

Alex Perry knew that time was running out. The beast had ransacked his memory for a place to hide and had come across a vivid image of Cathedral Caverns. It was bearing him there now, hustling through the woods, with the furious barking of Red Beavers' bird dogs in his ears. They were gaining on him, they couldn't be more than half a mile behind now, and what was worse, they knew these woods far better than he did. Alex felt the monster's fury and desperation at being caught like this, being stalked through unfamiliar territory. There was little he could do for now except sabotage his own body and make it useless for the intruder but even that small act of resistance was becoming harder and riskier. He decided to wait a while longer, for a better moment, when the beast had its guard down. Then, maybe, if he was incredibly lucky, he could take back his own body and expel the demon. Or if not that, then maybe trap the thing forever in a lifeless corpse.

He didn't care to dwell on that thought too much.

The land was sloping down now, more and more steeply, and before he knew it, Alex Perry was standing in the dark parking lot of the Caverns. The tower of the elevator shaft loomed ahead like a shadowy castle turret. The sound of an engine straining up the grade startled him. Alex turned around and saw twin light beams poking up above the crest of the driveway. A car was coming up here, to the parking lot, to the Caverns.

He ran across the asphalt to the iron grille of the entrance. It was padlocked tight and the demon growled as the headlights grew brighter. He looked up, seeing his own shadow silhouetted against the granite wall, and whirled about just as Walt Ames' truck bounced over the speed breaker at the top of the hill and came to a rest outside the fence, his lights shining directly on the grille a hundred yards ahead.

Alex felt the fury pumping and let the demon rage wildly in the glare of the light beams. The truck was quiet--its engine had been cut--then a loud series of honks began. Quickly, Alex turned his attention to the grille itself. He placed his fingers through the bars and pulled, straining against the hinges, feeling the padlocks bend ever so slightly, then with a loud crack, suddenly give way. He slung the grating to the ground and ripped the grille from its hinges. The vague outlines of the tunnel gleamed up at him, caught in the glare of the truck's headlights and the dusty orange glow of the safety lamps embedded in the rock walls.

A gunshot rang out and the bullet pranged off the crevice just over his head. Another shot followed, sending chips of rock and ice spraying everywhere.

Alex Perry snarled and looked back. A figure had emerged from the truck cab and was hovering just beyond the fence. He saw the glint of metal as the man took aim again.

The bullet whistled right by his ear and thunked! into the wooden stanchion beside the grille post. He wasted no more time standing there in full view of the gunman. By the time the next shot came, he was already clattering down the steps, disappearing into the endless labyrinth of Cathedral Caverns.

2.

Halfway across the abandoned campground by the lake, the men saw the ruins of the cabin. Mosley motioned for everyone to be quiet and together, they skulked through the weeds toward the wreckage, barely breathing, rifles ready. It was all Red Beavers could do to keep his dogs quiet.

Two walls and the roof had collapsed but the chimney and part of the staircase were still standing. The cabin windows were out and a big pile of rubble was piled high on the floor inside. Mosley peered cautiously over the ledge of one of the windows--Ray Stocker's breath was hot on his neck.

"It looks fresh, don't it?" he muttered. "The dust is still settling."

Just then, one of Red's dogs started to yelping, straining furiously at his leash. Everyone jumped a foot. Red brought his dogs up to the stoop while Mosley shoved the door in with the butt of his rifle. It sagged against the wall, partly off its hinges.

Red led his dogs inside and let them poke around the rubble for a few minutes. Ray pulled out a handkerchief and wiped some sweat from his forehead.

"He's been here, hasn't he?"

Mosley nodded, kicking at a piece of wire screen. "Looks like it. Wouldn't you say, Red?"

"Yep." Red pulled his dogs back and led them outside. They began to settle down after a few minutes of his smooth crooning and murmuring. "No more'n half an hour ago, at the most."

Mosley felt a nudge in his side. It was Sandy Stearns. He turned to reply but Sandy was pointing numbly at a pair of legs protruding from underneath some framing. Frank Costa was already there, struggling with the heavy boards.

In a minute, they had extricated the body. It was a young man, slender from the looks of it. His chest was crushed--there was a dark purple stain where his ribs would have been. And his head was gone.

"Goddamn," Ray muttered. "Cover it back up, will you?" He fled to the edge of the woods and clung to a tree there, a little wobbly.

"Who is it?" asked Red.

Mosley swallowed hard and quickly searched the body for a wallet. "Don't know. His pockets are empty. Some hiker probably, stopping in for the night. No way to identify it without a head."

Frank probed the body for a few seconds more, then stood up. "He hasn't been dead long. I'll bet the head's around here somewhere."

"I don't aim to go looking for it, do you?" said Mosley. "We'd best be on our way before the dogs lose the scent."

"We can't just leave it here," said Frank "It's a health hazard, it's evidence, it's--"

"I can't help that. That animal may come back here and finish the job. We've got to move out now. You can play coroner later."

Frank was about to put his foot down and argue when the sound of gunfire in the distance silenced everybody. They listened.

One shot, echoing down the hillside. The dogs started whining again. Then another shot. And a third.

Mosley stiffened. "That's it then. He's at the Caverns. Come on, men. Get your stuff. Get your rifles. Red, keep the dogs leashed. You go on ahead and we'll follow." He turned back to Frank. "Do what you think's best. Stay with the body. Take Red's truck if you have to. It's not that far a hike to the entrance."

"You got enough men?"

Mosley sighed a deep sigh. "I doubt it but they'll have to do. I could use an army." The men studied each other and Frank laid a hand on the Chief 's shoulder.

"I'll tell June what's going on. She'll want to know."

Mosley smiled grimly. "Thanks, Frank.'' He tapped the butt of his rifle on the floor and patted it reassuringly. "We'll get him. One way or another. You've got enough bodies to attend too."

"Amen to that. Watch yourself.''

Mosley slapped his belt, feeling for the extra cartridges. He yelled out into the woods. "Stay together! Stay within earshot! It's awful rough country going up and I don't want to lose anybody before we get there."

Somewhere off in the woods, Sandy Stearns snorted and said to Ray Stocker, "After that, he doesn't care."

The group tramped off, leaving Frank alone, a headless body his only company.
Chapter 31

1.

Bette Perry stopped cold in her tracks, her arms around her children, when the trio of shots rang out. She wasn't entirely sure where they were, except lost in the woods north of the lake, but the echo of gunfire chilled her to the bone and she licked her lips, praying it wasn't what she thought.

At least, the shots gave them a direction to follow. She took a look around, slowly releasing her grip on Marcy and Jimmy, and tried to figure out where they were.

Off to her left, she could see the starlight reflecting off the gently foaming surface of the lake itself. The creaking of some old pier pilings could be heard over the lapping of the waves. She marched her children up to the top of a little hill and looked around, trying to discern some familiar landmark. It was not particularly cloudy out tonight but it was dark in the woods and she was nervous. They were alone and unprotected and each step they took seemed to bring new and unfamiliar sounds. The children were soaked from the damp leaves, and scared. Her flashlight beam was weakening steadily.

She looked around.

The best she could determine, they were still some distance from the Caverns. She didn't see anything that looked like the big angular mountain that marked the complex. There was a mist rolling in off the lake and that, mixed with the smoke from the fire in town, made visibility less than ideal. Through the pine trees, she could see the smooth green hump of Eagle Point to the northeast. Hiker's Cap was there. And the red glow of the fire--my God, I hope they get that under control--she reasoned that if they were more or less due north of the lake itself, then Cathedral Caverns should lie somewhere further north, beyond the next wave of ridges.

She shined her flashlight in that direction, saw that the ground canted down to a vine-covered gully, and grabbed Marcy's hand.

''Come on, gang. We're not quite there yet."

"Momma," Jimmy whined, "my shoes are wet. Can't we stop for awhile?"

"No, now hush. You don't want those men with the guns to get to your Daddy before we do, do you?"

"No, but--" his voice cracked, the tears streaming down his cheeks, as he stumbled to keep up.

"Why do they want to hurt Daddy?" asked Marcy.

Bette guided them carefully down the slope, into the gully and up the other side. "Just be quiet for now, honey. I'll explain it all to you both someday." The leaves were matted down thick on the floor of the forest and footing was treacherous. They reached the crest of the ridge and saw the black asphalt ribbon of Wickham Road below. Bette stopped to get her breath back. Despite the cool air, her blouse was drenched with perspiration. "At least we're headed the right way," she muttered. She yanked on Marcy's hand.

''Ouch, Momma...." Marcy's hand twisted out of her grasp and Bette snagged a spindly tree to keep from rolling down the hill. She looked behind--Marcy lay on her side, clutching her ankle, crying. "It hurts...." her lips trembled when she saw her mother coming back.

"Get up."

"Mom-ma, I can't .... "

"I said get up." Bette hauled her daughter to her feet and slapped her face. "Stop that wailing. They'll hear us. Now get on your feet—here, put your arms around Jimmy. That's it, help her." Marcy put her arms around her brother's shoulders and hobbled along, as Bette picked her way down the hill through the weeds and brush. They came to the edge of the road. It was dark and deserted.

They waited a few seconds before crossing. Bette led the way, the flashlight beam almost shot, her children whimpering and complaining as they struggled to keep up. They plunged back into the woods on the other side, and began a long, arduous trek up yet another hill, this one steeper, choked with dying kudzu and patches of slippery moss. The ground was spongy with gopher holes, making the climb hard and frustrating. At the top, though, their efforts were rewarded; the ivy-covered silo of the Caverns elevator shaft was clearly visible through the branches. Even better, the land levelled out to a plateau and sloped gently down toward the base of the tower. It looked to be a quarter mile off, no more.

The woods were full of vines with bright red berries. At least the ground is firmer, Bette thought. Much of the soil was only a thin layer of dirt, overlaying the rocky flanks of the mountain. They had to squeeze through several stands of prickly hawthorn bushes and by the time they stood together on the last crest that sloped down to the parking lot, Bette's arms were cut and bleeding. She stooped down, motioning for the children to do likewise and studied the muddy defile before them, looking for the best way down.

Jimmy's face was bruised from low-hanging branches and Marcy sobbed softly, her hands in her mouth. Bette hadn't noticed the pickup truck at the main gate at first, but when she saw the figure of a man squatting in the dusty glare of the truck's headlights, trying to pick the lock, she clapped a hand over Marcy's mouth and hissed. "If you don't hush, I'll spank you both right now.''

"Momma, I'm cold. My ankle--"

"Shhh!'' She twisted her daughter's head, so she could see the man. It looked suspiciously like Walt Ames, gangly and wiry in the shadows. He seemed not to have heard them.

Bette puzzled over the dilemma for a few minutes. She could find no way of getting down and up to the Caverns entrance without being spotted. At best, they could move further along the top of the bank, closer to the Visitors Center and drop down to the parking lot there. If they were careful, and quiet....

"Come on." She pulled the children up and led them hobbling along the edge of the bank, away from the main gate, toward the small fieldstone building housing the cafeteria and novelty shops. They found a section of the bank where the ground seemed hard and a few scruffy oaks gave them a little concealment. Bette sat her children down and whispered instructions.

"See where that iron grille is over there, on the ground?"

They both nodded solemnly, sniffling.

"I want you to go down the bank, staying behind those trees as long as you can, and when you get to the bottom, run for that grille. Use that as your guide. The entrance to the cave is between those two orange lights. See them?"

They nodded again. Jimmy said, "Momma, I'm scared."

Bette smoothed out his hair and kissed him lightly on the forehead. "So am I, son. But we have to be brave."

Marcy took Bette's fingers in her hands and squeezed them for reassurance. "Do we have to go in there?"

Bette nodded. "I'll be right behind you. We're going to look for Daddy. Now, do you both understand? Wait for me just inside the entrance. Don't you dare go any deeper into the caves. If we're lucky, that man over there won't even see us."

"Who is he?" asked Jimmy.

''I'm not sure. But he wants to hurt your Daddy and it's up to us to stop him. Okay?"

They both nodded.

"Let's go, then."

Marcy was still limping but she managed to scramble down the embankment with little difficulty, following right behind her brother. Both of them seemed to have caught the spirit of adventure; their mother's conspiratorial tone had intrigued them and now they saw it as a game. Bette watched them crouching at the bottom, whispering to each other behind the warped trunk of an old tree, and when the moment seemed right, they sprang from their hiding place and dashed as fast as they could across the pavement.

Bette held her breath until they disappeared between the orange lights. She realized they had made almost no noise at all; Jimmy had been smart enough to make the dash barefooted and his sister had done the same. Bette smiled in spite of herself--it was something she had never thought of.

She took off her own shoes and stuffed them into a bush. Then, sitting on her butt, she half slid, half fell down the bank, catching herself at the bottom on a stout limb of the old tree. Some rocks and dirt clods followed her down and clattered out onto the asphalt. She was perfectly still, praying Walt hadn't heard anything.

When she was reasonably certain he hadn't, she got herself up, crouching low and estimated the distance to the entrance. It had to be at least a hundred feet, maybe more.

But the kids had done it. She could too. She took a deep breath, tried to steady her jangling nerves and groped in the dirt for good footing.

An instant later, she launched herself out.

She stumbled almost immediately and fell to her chest with a loud grunt. Furious with herself, she scrambled up and raced for the opening. But the damage had been done.

"Hey!" came a high-pitched voice. It was Walt Ames. Something metal scraped the outer fence, the sound carrying all the way across the parking lot. "Hey, who's there? Stop, you!"

But Bette had no intention of stopping or even slowing. She nearly lost her balance again, running as hard as she could, and she skidded on some sand just as she flashed by the grille. But the entrance gaped before her and she dived inside, landing on her shoulders and striking a decorative iron railing with her head. She lay on her side, heaving in air for a few seconds, while Jimmy came over and gently touched a swelling bruise on her temple.

"Momma, you okay? You still alive?" He frowned with worry until he saw a big grin come to his mother's lips. Groggy and tired, she sat up awkwardly and patted her heart. It was racing.

"Yeah, honey, I'm alive. Whew. Help me up and let's see where we are.''

Marcy was standing at the back of the main hall, fingering some of the delicate boxwork on the walls. She peered cautiously into the narrow corridor that led out of the room.

"It's dark down there. Jimmy, I hear some ghosts."

Bette came over. "Hold my hand, honey. I don't want either of you wandering off. How's your ankle?"

Marcy's voice deepened. "It hurts, ma'am, but I'll live."

"What did you say?"

Jimmy snickered and poked his sister in the back. "She heard that on television yesterday. Gunsmoke."

Bette laughed, surprised she could find any humor at all in their situation. God help us, she told herself. Together, they squeezed into the tunnel.

To save energy, the amber safety lamps inside the Caverns were kept at their lowest wattage during off-hours, so the corridor was darker than usual and bitterly cold. Bette drew her bathrobe closer and made Jimmy snap up his jacket. Marcy buried herself in the folds of the robe.

They followed the tunnel for many minutes, descending all the while, feeling the earth close in around them, the weight of tons of rock and dirt pressing down. The board flooring creaked as they went along. It took some time for them to grow accustomed to the steady dripping of water, a sound that seemed to permeate the whole Caverns. It was monotonous and droning, yet when they had gotten used to it, somehow reassuring, as if it were the heartbeat of the complex.

They had little choice on which direction to go at first, merely following the only tunnel that was large enough to accommodate human beings. The board flooring was a comforting reminder that other humans had been here before them; otherwise, in the dim light, it was easy enough to imagine they were pioneering the caves for the first time. That thought gave Bette the shivers: she knew she was no explorer and the chance that they might inadvertently drift away from the main tunnel and find themselves quickly lost in the labyrinth was one of her greatest fears. She didn't know what she would do if they had to choose a direction.

But Alex was down there somewhere, hiding, perhaps wounded, probably scared and maybe lost and she knew there would be no going back, no retreat. Not now. One way or another, they would find him.

The tunnel levelled out a bit and took a sharp turn to the right before broadening into a chamber full of frail, translucent "draperies." The Ice Veils. Bette remembered them from the last trip they had made, almost a year and a half ago, not long after they had moved to the Lake for good. It seemed like ages ago now. They paused to get their bearings.

It was a small chamber, crowded with ridges and humps and domes of ice, and surrounded by a fence of crimson and white stalactites. Marcy went to one and let a drop of water run down her finger, smacking her lips as she tasted it. Jimmy studied the spiral patterns engrained in the rows of cave flowers around the floor. Bette stood in the middle, hands on hips, debating which way to go next.

They were startled by the sound of dogs barking. It came from the tunnel they had followed from the entrance and the snarls and yelps were loud and clear, carrying well in the dense cold air.

"They're already here," Bette muttered. She motioned for Marcy to leave the veils alone. "Right behind us." Jimmy came over. He was sucking on a piece of ice.

"Which way do we go, Mom?"

Bette shook her head. Alex, where are you? There were three tunnels that branched off from the chamber of the Ice Veils. The barking grew louder, more agitated. They were coming. She felt how sweaty her palms had become. "That way," she pointed. "Keep following the flooring." She had chosen the standard tourist route. She could only hope that Alex had done the same.

The tunnel twisted and turned, following a corkscrew path deeper into the guts of the mountain. If anything, it was growing colder. The walls were smooth and slick, sheets of ice frozen right into the rock. Each step sent another puff of vapor swirling in the shadows. And the tunnels were narrower, pinched in above them. This can't be the way they run the tours. She had forgotten how claustrophobic it was.

They passed through a portal of limestone teeth and emerged unexpectedly into the Tower of Terror, now nearly darkened, the special effects turned off, but still startling unless you were ready for it. Marcy shrieked and stood numbly pointing at the dinosaur nestled in its crevice, its teeth poised just above the arm of a little girl.

"M-mom-ma, m-momma, it's gonna eat her...."

"Hush," Bette said, and grabbed her roughly by the arm. Jimmy gulped hard and closed his eyes as they trudged along the semi-circular path through the waxworks. Some of the statues bobbed eerily in the breeze they stirred and the shadows on the walls shifted in unison, black shapes barely moving just out of the corner of their eyes. They passed Jack the Ripper and Dracula and Wolfman, and by the time they had run the gauntlet and stood by the railing on the other side of the dragon exhibit, Marcy was crying again and Jimmy was fighting not to.

''Momma, can't we go back? I'm scared down here. I don't like it."

Bette knelt down and took her firmly by the arms. "Don't you hear those dogs? Those are real and they're coming after us. All this in here is make-believe. If we go back now, we'll run right into those dogs.''

"Will...will they eat us?" she sobbed.

"No, honey, they won't eat us. But you don't want to be caught, do you?''

She shook her head vigorously and rubbed some tears from her eyes.

"That's better. Now straighten up and hold my hand. You too, Jimmy." She stood up and looked around. Which way now?

She couldn't remember what came next on the tour. The flooring ended here in the Tower; ahead, the path was gravel and dirt. It split off into four branches, only one of which was lighted. That was the tour route.

Bette fidgeted. The snarling of the dogs echoed down the tunnel behind them.

2.

Dick Mosley bent down and ran his finger along the ragged edge of the iron grille. Ray Stocker's flashlight beam played back and forth across the spot.

"No man could have done that," Mosley said. "The thing is ripped clean off, like it was paper or something."

Ray cleared his throat. "He's not even human anymore."

''If he ever was."

Red Beavers struggled to keep his dogs under control. They strained at their leashes, growling at the mouth of the tunnel, snapping at each other. Sandy Stearns had gone down to the main gate to let Walt Ames in. He rode back in Walt's truck. They pulled up and parked alongside the entrance. Walt came over, cradling his rifle against his shoulder.

"Damn lock was stuck," he said. "I was about to shoot the sucker off."

Mosley stood up. "Looks like you were too late anyway."

"I saw him. Took a few shots but I musta missed him." He whistled when he saw the torn grille. A padlock lay on the pavement next to it and Walt stooped to pick it up. He turned the device in his fingers, feeling where the metal had been bent. "I wonder if even a bullet would have stopped him. Oh, by the way, someone else came by a few minutes ago, just before you showed up."

"Someone else? Who?"

Walt set the butt of the rifle down and drew out a cigarette. Ray Stocker gave him a light. "I couldn't tell exactly. It was too dark and the fog was thick at the moment. But I'd bet my right arm it was Mrs. Perry and her kids."

Mosley stiffened. ''Are you sure?"

Walt shook his head. "Nope. But that's who it looked like. I didn't figure you wanted me to do any shooting at them."

Mosley sighed. He kicked at the sand on the pavement angrily. "Damn it. That's the worst possible thing that could happen." He motioned for Red and Sandy and the others to come over. When everyone was together, Mosley squatted down and scratched diagrams in the sand with a pebble. "It's pretty clear from the looks of that grille that our man is already inside," he told them. "The only question is where."

Ray Stocker said, "Why don't we split up, Chief? The Caverns are a big place. We could cover more ground that way."

Mosley vetoed that. "Too dangerous. None of us knows our way that well down there. Greta Blanchard once told me she figured half the complex had never been adequately explored. If one of us was to get lost, he might never get out."

"And you don't want to run into that monster alone," added Sandy. "Believe me."

"Exactly." Mosley doodled in the sand. "This is what we'll do, as a single group. We'll head for the very center of the complex, Pinnacle Falls, in the most direct way we can. If we see nothing on the way, then once we're there, we'll fan out and cover all the main branches going back up to the surface."

"What if he's deeper than that?"

It was Red that had spoken. He was thinking about the dogs. Mosley squinted up at him. "We'll deal with that when we come to it."

"Hey, look," said Sandy, pointing to the gate. "Someone's coming."

They all turned in time to see the bright headlamps of a car bouncing up the steep drive to the parking lot.

"Who the hell could that be?" Mosley muttered. He watched the car top the hill and take the speed breaker without even slowing, its rear fender scraping the asphalt. It accelerated across the lot and bore down on them. Red Beavers' dogs started barking again and Mosley was about to order everyone to scatter but the car screeched to a halt a few dozen yards away, sliding on the sand. A trio of familiar figures climbed out and came running. ''Jeanne...Jasmine...what are you doing here?" The third figure hung back from the rest. It was Hannah Burdette.

Jasmine ran up to her husband. She was out of breath. "It's Bette...she's gone...she's not in the house." She had to stop to get her breath back.

Jeanne Costa picked up. "We looked everywhere we could think of, but they're not there. We were afraid she--" She stopped, eyeing the dogs, jerking at the ends of their leashes. And the grille. "--they might have come here." She rubbed her hands together nervously. "Oh, Dick, you don't think--"

Jasmine clung to her husband. "We came as fast as we could."

Mosley pulled out his revolver and spun the chamber, checking to make sure it was full. He snapped it shut and holstered it. Then he buttoned his jacket up tight. "Ten to one, she's down in there, with her kids too, the fool. We've got to get to Alex before they do."

Jeanne cringed as the other men checked their weapons. "Are those really necessary?"

Mosley checked his flashlight and nodded grimly. "They may be. I hope not but I ain't taking any more chances. You girls promise me one thing."

"Sure."

"Stay here, no matter what happens. Don't come in after us. Stay out of the caves. Better yet, find yourself a place to hide. Like up in the bushes along the bank there, just in case we flush him out."

"Okay." Jeanne touched his arm gently. "But be careful, will you? Your wife would make a lousy widow."

Mosley squeezed her hand. "I'll tell her you said that." He waved to Red Beavers. "Take the dogs in first. We'll be right behind you."

3.

Bette chose the lighted tunnel. She wanted to be brave in front of her children and the thought of slipping down an unlighted, unmarked, maybe even unexplored branch of the cave didn't appeal to her. She was on the raw edge now as it was; she knew she couldn't keep her wits if the children sensed they were lost. Better to stick to the well-traveled route. She figured Alex had done the same.

The path was gravel and dirt now, narrowing with each turn, as they plunged deeper through the twisting course of the tourists' route. The children had fallen quiet since leaving the Tower of Terror and Bette felt them stiffening every time a bend in the tunnel came up. They're terrified, she told herself. She tightened her grip on their hands. So am I.

Her breath was frosty and erratic and the crunching of their feet on the dirt echoed hollowly up and down the length of the tunnel. At least, the dogs were quiet. But she had to fight the feeling they were being stalked, being watched from the shady crevices in the walls. She found herself looking back at each curve in the path, refusing to believe they were alone, certain at times that someone, some thing, was hanging back just beyond the glare of the safety lamps, a presence not quite visible but somehow still there, following them, waiting for the right moment to pounce. More than once, she imagined she had heard the rustle of wings. She looked up, still walking, and studied the craggy folds of the ceiling, wondering about bats. Every cave had them. What if they were rabid? And there were whispers, delicate tinkling noises drifting in the air, and more often than she cared to admit, the clear and distinct rush of labored breathing, ahead of them in the darkness, always ahead, always retreating as they approached, always teasing them. She imagined it was Alex and thought of calling to him but decided not to. If it wasn't her husband, she had no desire to learn the truth.

They pressed on.

Bette mentally pronounced the names of each stop on the tour as they came to it. To occupy her mind, she tried to recall what she had read of them. They walked by the Serpent's Crest and the Jungle of Mirrors, where they paused momentarily to gawk at themselves in the polished slabs of ice sticking up out of the dirt and then scurried on when they saw what the cold dry air had done to their faces. They passed the Beehives and the Fingers and the Vegetable Patch and the Throne. And all the while, the ground gradually levelled out. Bette numbly acknowledged each BE CAREFUL plaque as they descended. When they reached the tight squeeze of Dead Man's Pinch though, Marcy stopped and tore herself free from her mother's grasp. The safety lamps were out along this stretch of the tunnel and she refused to go any further.

"I don't like the dark," she whined. To emphasize the point, she sat down in the dirt and crossed her arms.

"Get up right now," Bette said. She yanked her daughter to her feet. Marcy started to cry. "I thought you were going to be brave."

Marcy sobbed and stamped her feet. "I'm cold. Can't we go back? Daddy isn't here."

"Yes he is, now hush. Jimmy--" But Jimmy had continued on down the tunnel, automatically, scuffing through the dirt, about to disappear around the turn. ''JIMMY!" She dragged Marcy by her arms and went running after her son. She caught him just as he slipped around the comer. "Jimmy, what's the matter? Jimmy, you--" But she never finished the sentence.

The low thundering hiss of Pinnacle Falls lay just ahead of them.

Fascinated, the three of them walked cautiously down the path toward the oval of light at the bottom of the incline. The roar of the falls was deafening at the entrance.

They stepped into a tiny cove called Devil's Garden and when they came out the other side, they found themselves on the edge of a sliver of rock, perched precariously on the side of steep, glistening walls, deeply furrowed from centuries of water cascading down the cliff. A fanciful wrought-iron railing kept them pinned against the wall. Below, the pool was white with foam and spray.

Three broad streams of water plunged down from an opening high in the wrinkled stone of the ceiling. A faint rainbow hung like a veil just under the edge of the shelf, forming a halo through which the water fell more than ninety feet to the lake below. In the shifting lights of the color wheels that played over the falls, the water seemed luminescent and celestial, a shaft of radiance shimmering on the very edge of perception.

Bette caught her breath. She had forgotten how beautiful it was.

Entranced by the spectacle, she hadn't noticed the little crevice halfway up the walls about a quarter of the way around the chamber from the public platform. The shadows were deep there and the hollow so tiny that it seemed unlikely, if not impossible, that anyone could make their way up to it.

But someone had.

It was Jimmy who first spotted him. Frantically, he tugged at Bette's robe. "Look! Look, up there! It's Dad!"

And it was.

"Oh, my God."

Crouching on the edge of the projection, squatting on his legs, his face eclipsed by the shadows, hair drenched from the spray, was Alex Perry, her husband, the man she loved, still loved, the man she had come to take back. "God," she whispered. Marcy sat down and started to cry.

He seemed spectral, unearthly, in the dim light that the color wheels cast on that part of the wall. Anxious to see him better, Bette went over to the railing and leaned down, stretching to reach one of the wheels, to see if she couldn't get more light up there, get a better look at him.

"Momma, you'll fall," said Jimmy. He ran over and pulled her back.

"I can't see him," she said. "I want to see him."

''1 can climb down to that light, if you want."

Bette looked at the wheel. It was nestled on a tray that was bolted into the wall. The drop was ten feet from the platform to the tray, a hundred feet more to the pool below. It was risky, she couldn't let him. "I don't know, Jimmy...."

But before she could stop him, he had scrambled over the edge and was hanging by his fingers. She cried out but too late. His fingers lost their grip. She raced to the side.

He had landed on his back. Safe. All right. He grinned up at her. "Just like the ape-man!" he yelled. He reached over and fiddled with the color wheel, pulling on it for a second, until he could get the thing to swivel. Aiming it was hard and red-blue-green light flashed all around the chamber for a few seconds until he had the wheel under control. Bette looked up, watching the light crawl up the side of the walls. It came to rest, a bit unsteadily, on the crevice where Alex sat. He blinked and lowered his face.

Somehow, Jimmy managed to scramble back up the rook face to the platform. Together, the three of them moved over to the far end, right under the crevice. Alex leered down at them.

"DON'T COME ANY CLOSER!" he boomed out. The words reverberated. ''Please."

Bette was on the verge of tears. She clutched her children to her robe. Marcy was still sniffling. She had to yell to be heard over the falls.

"How do you feel, honey? Aren't you cold up there?" She moved up to the railing, looking for a way, anyway, to get up there and be with him. There wasn't any. "Why don't you come down?"

"I CAN'T, BETTE. LEAVE ME ALONE."

"You don't mean that! Look--the kids are here .... " She pushed Marcy and Jimmy away, so Alex could see them. Marcy burst into tears again. Jimmy half-waved, and swallowed hard. "They've come to see you!"

"IT'S OVER, BETTE. IT'S TIME TO FACE THAT."

She was losing her voice but she shook her head. And bit her lip. "No it isn't! Don't say that, don't even think it! We can fight this thing!"

"IT'S ALREADY WON. HELL, I'M MORE OF A MAN NOW THAN I WAS THE OTHER WAY. ADMIT IT. YOU CAN'T LOVE ME THIS WAY. AND WHAT I WAS BEFORE--" His voice cracked. "I'M IN CONTROL NOW, HONEY. I'M ON TOP, FOR THE MOMENT. BUT I CAN'T HOLD OUT MUCH LONGER. I'M SLIPPING AWAY, FURTHER AND FURTHER, AND I DON'T THINK I CAN COME BACK."

Tears welled in her eyes. She wiped her face with the robe. "It's time to come home," she cried. "DAMN IT, Alex, you can't leave me like this! What about our dreams? All our plans? Remember...remember when we met in the hospital—you were in therapy--I was your nurse...."

"BETTE—"

"And...and I helped you lift those weights...helped you cheat so you could get out sooner. And you proposed to me at the drive-in that night, and hurt your shoulder DON'T YOU REMEMBER THOSE THINGS?"

He nodded silently and she thought, just for a moment, that she saw a streak of wet on his cheek too.

She was sobbing uncontrollably now. "I was so...proud of you when you took over the bookstore. My own man...oh, God, Alex, it can't be over now, not here, not like this, it just can't—"

"BETTE...BETTE. PLEASE. LISTEN TO ME. I LOVE YOU. I LOVE THE KIDS AND EVERYTHING BUT LOOK AT ME FOR CHRISSAKES. LOOK AT WHAT I AM. IT'S PERRY BLOOD, IT'S BEEN THIS WAY IN EVERY GENERATION. "

"Dammit, it doesn't have to be!"

"IT DOES. THAT'S WHAT I'M SAYING. IT'S THE PACT. THE AGREEMENT MY ANCESTOR MADE THREE HUNDRED YEARS AGO. TO SAVE HIMSELF. IT CAN'T BE BROKEN. YOU SAW WHAT HAPPENED TO THE TOWN WHEN RITA TRIED TO BREAK THE CHAIN. BETTE—" his face hardened for a second, as he fought the demon, "BETTE, IT CAN'T WORK. PLEASE...PLEASE LEAVE NOW...."

"I can't...I won't! Alex, I love you too much to give you up to some force!''

His head snapped back and he jerked to his feet. For a second, she was afraid he would tumble into the falls, but he grabbed the edge of the crevice. She could see the struggle, mirrored in his face, the way he sneered and grinned and opened his mouth to scream only to have his voice strangled. Emotions flickered across his face and he seemed by turns angry and sad, alert and lethargic, gentle and brutal; she never knew which to expect next.

At last, the war subsided. He leaned dangerously out over the end of the ledge and laughed, a deep, resonating, hysterical giggle that loosened a seam of rock in the wall. Dirt and pebbles rained down on them and Bette covered her head, hiding the children with her robe.

When the dust had settled, she looked up. Alex grinned down at them and began unbuckling his pants.

"YOU THINK YOU LOVE ME, BETTE?"

"Momma, I got cut by a rock." It was Jimmy, wiping a line of blood from his scalp.

"YOU DON'T LOVE ME!" He dropped his pants and stepped out of them, kicking them over the edge. They plunged into the frothing pool below and he stood at the very edge of the crevice, nearly losing his balance, waving his organ at them, stroking it vigorously, giggling and groaning, taunting them. ''THIS IS WHAT YOU LOVED, ISN'T IT?" He snickered and came violently all over the wall, moaning, laughing, his back and neck arched at painful, unnatural angles. "GO ON AND ADMIT IT. YOU LOVED IT ALL RIGHT—"

"Momma. I think I'm gonna be sick...."

"--I CAN GIVE YOU EVERYTHING—I'VE LOVED FOR A MILLION YEARS. WHO KNOWS--MAYBE LONGER." And then he pissed, squirting a stream over the edge, aiming at them, splattering the dirt with urine.

"Momma?"

"MOMMA," he echoed. A silly grin came to his lips and then his face began to swell, puffing up like a frog's, ballooning out until she was sure it would burst. He held his breath for several minutes, his face flushed with blood, stamping his feet like a child, scuffing dirt and rock over the side in a mock temper tantrum and then he let go and expelled air in a violent gust that rocked the chamber and loosened even more dirt from the walls. He laughed and choked and gagged and she could see he had bitten clean through his tongue, for a trickle of blood dribbled along the edge of his lips.

"Daddy, stop it!" Jimmy tore loose from his mother and ran to the edge of the platform, intent on scaling the wall, climbing it, getting up there somehow. "Daddy, quit it! Quit it, quit it, quit it, quit it!" He was already on the railing, straining for the first outcropping when Bette got there and dragged him back down. He slapped her, screaming, clawing at her face, and he kicked her cheeks, drawing blood, until she hugged him hard and stepped back from the railing, dropping to the ground and pinning him there underneath her, sparring with him until at last, he realized it was hopeless, it was futile, he couldn't get up there. "Hush, hush, now, honey, Daddy's gonna be all right, just you wait and see, please now, don't cry, don't cry, be brave, okay, that's a good boy," and after a few minutes, he calmed down, he quit shaking and squirming and there was Marcy squatting next to him, wiping his face with her own dusty hands, sniffing back tears of her own and the room was spinning, and his throat burned like fire and in the end, he buried his face in his mother's chest and cried and cried and cried....

Bette helped her son up and when she was sure he could stand by himself, she glared up at Alex, saw him perched on the edge of his little niche like some silly old hoot owl and said, "Dammit. Alex! Dammit! Can't you see what you're doing?"

"DAMMIT, ALEX, DAMMIT. DAMMIT, ALEX, DAMMIT." He grunted and bellowed for a minute, a strange cacophony of animal bleats and snarls, and then, "COCKSUCKER, COCKLOVER, HOW 'BOUT SOME PUSSY NOW, YOU PROMISCUOUS SLUT."

"Momma, look!"

The tunnel behind them was suddenly filled with the wild barking of dogs. There were shouts, and the sound of feet pounding. Bette whirled in time to see the first dogs trotting in, leaning on their leashes, straining to pull free. A second later, Red Beavers' bald head poked around the corner.

"They're in here!" he yelled back, to someone following him. "Whoa," he crooned to the dogs. "Whoa, easy." He yanked back on the leashes, shortening up the slack until he had them by the collars. "Easy, fellows. Easy." He coughed some dirt out of his throat and spat. "You okay, Miz Perry? We been looking all over for you." Just as he spoke, his gaze shifted up to the crevice where Alex squatted. He rocked back on his heels, the blood draining from his face. "Holy shit." He wrestled the dogs out of the way as the rest of the search party poured into the chamber.

Dick Mosley pushed through the group and stood in front. The dogs whined and Red shushed them. Mosley stared up at Alex, then down at Bette. He took a few steps forward and stopped, halfway between the entrance and the end of the platform. At the sound of a rifle bolt clicking, Marcy started sobbing. She hid her face in the folds of her mother's robe.

"Ma'am—Mrs. Perry...are you all right? Is anyone hurt?" He saw the dried blood smeared all over Jimmy's face.

Bette's voice was thick. She clutched her children tightly. "We're okay. But we're not leaving."

Mosley relaxed a little and extended his hand. "I can't let you stay, you know that."

"For Chrissakes, that's my husband up there."

"Is it?"

"Of course it is. You can't ask me to leave now."

Mosley took a deep breath. Carefully, he withdrew his revolver. "That thing up there isn't even human anymore, Mrs. Perry. You've got to understand that. Why don't you let one of the men take you back up?"

"No."

"LISTEN TO HIM, BETTE."

She turned around. Alex was no longer squatting. Instead, he had wedged himself deeper into the crevice. Only his face was visible. He was shaking, his arms wrapped around his shoulders. He stared down into the lake.

"What are you saying?"

"The truth. What I tried to say before. Honey, I'm losing control, right now, even as I'm talking to you. Please get out, while you can."

"Alex--"

"LISTEN TO ME, GODDAMMIT!" He laughed a little, and a vague snarl gurgled in the back of his throat. "Listen to me. Do it for the children. If you really love me, do it, honey, before it's too late." He growled and coughed. She could see he was straining to stay burrowed in the hole. He shuddered and cocked his head slightly, so that he could see her out of the corner of his eye. He seemed so thin, crouching up there, so vulnerable, she thought. Maybe a few weeks rest, a trip to the Caribbean like Jasmine suggested. Some time away from that store.

"I'LL PLUCK THAT FINE PUSSY."

His words jolted her from the dream. She realized, for the first time, that her heart was racing, she could hear the blood surging in her ears. Or was that the waterfall? She was torn looking from Alex to Chief Mosley to her children. It was unfair. She wanted to close her eyes and will it all away. None of it was real, it couldn't be. She winced as her head throbbed.

"Momma, don't fall." Jimmy squeezed her hand and tugged on it until her eyes fluttered open. She felt faint and Mosley rushed to her side, catching her before she could collapse.

"Come on, Bette, it's time for you to leave. Come on, now. Here, take Sandy's hand. You too, kids, take his hand and follow him out."

She resisted for a second, turning around so she could see her husband. "Alex," she murmured, too low to be heard over the roar of the falls. "Alex, I love you." She let herself be guided to the entrance, walking backward, Marcy and Jimmy still clinging to her robe.

His voice came back a faint but audible whisper, not her husband's voice, but someone else's, an echo from the past, from a million pasts, echoing across the chamber.

"I loved you too."

Sandy Stearns, with help from Ray Stocker, led them out of the chamber and back up the incline to the main tunnel. Bette couldn't hold back the tears and she sobbed uncontrollably, her shoulders shaking as they left. Dick Mosley didn't watch them go. He swallowed hard, gazing up at the man they had stalked for so long. At least, the falls muffled their crying.

Sandy and Ray returned a minute later. Mosley drew them aside. "You didn't go with her?"

Sandy shook his head. Ray spoke. "She wanted to go back alone. I made sure she knew the way."

Mosley shrugged. "Well, we know what we're here for.'' He directed the men to deploy at intervals along the length of the platform, finding for themselves the best line of fire. "We have a captive target," he told Ray, as they walked down to the end nearest the crevice. "The only way out is straight down."

Mosley propped one foot up on the railing and cupped his hands so he could be heard.

"Alex!" he yelled. "Alex Perry! Can you get down from up there? Do you need any help?"

The chamber was suddenly filled with mocking laughter, and they had to duck when he pitched a few good-sized rocks in their direction.

"I 'M NOT COMING DOWN, YOU TURDS."

Mosley motioned for Ray and the others to lay back against the wall, to make themselves smaller targets for the rock barrage. Another rifle bolt clicked behind him and it occurred to Mosley that the threat they presented was puny indeed. He could almost see the humor in it himself.

"We're not leaving until you do!" he yelled back. Another hail of rocks clattered off the walls and platform.

The laughter came again, more hysterical, a fit of giggling. "I'M OLDER THAN MAN AND I DON'T HAVE TO LISTEN TO YOU. I'VE SURVIVED ALL THAT THIS BEASTLY WORLD CAN DO TO ME. YOU'RE ALL A BUNCH OF SAPS IF YOU THINK I'LL DIE, EVEN IF THIS BODY DOES." He stood up, as much as he could in the tiny crevice, and tapped himself proudly on the chest. "FROM THE FIRST DAYS, WE HAVE LIVED BOTH IN AND OUT OF FLESH. THE SHADOWS OF MEN WILL ENDURE AS LONG AS THERE ARE MEN TO CAST THEM." He spat out a great, stringy wad of saliva.

Mosley motioned for the men to take their positions. "Don't fire until I say, but when I do, empty your guns." He waited until the men were ready, crouching all along the railing, sighting on the crevice. Then, he marched back out to the end of the platform. "For the last time, Alex, come down now, before it's too late. Think of your wife. Your children. What'll they do if you screw up now?" He watched, wondering if his words had any effect at all. For a brief moment, he imagined he was staring up at a different man. Alex slumped forward suddenly, teetering on the very edge of the crevice. The air darkened around his head, a blur that he attributed to a puff of dust stirred up by his own movement, but it fluttered and undulated for several seconds before vanishing. He wasn't altogether sure he had even seen it. A dizzying flow of expressions crossed his face and his body hung limp and silent, as though suspended at the end of a string. The roar of the falls was deep and visceral but somewhere amidst the crash of the water, he thought he heard a cry. It was there and gone almost before it registered--a distant howl of torment that sent goosebumps crawling down his back. For a long time, that sound would haunt him, lingering in his memory like a bad nightmare, all the more so because he knew he had not really heard what he had first thought he'd heard: the dying cry of someone in agonizing pain, a human scream being throttled in the making. Alex Perry--the man he had known by that name--finally strangled into deathly silence inside of his own body.

"Alex!" he yelled. "Alex--ALEX, ARE YOU THERE? Alex, don't you want to come down now?"

Even as he said it, he knew it was too late. The beast straightened up. It had already put down the internal revolt. Now, it bulked huge in the crevice, snarling at them savagely. A piece of the ledge crumbled away but it managed to stay in place, waving wildly, a formless shadow cast up high on the wall beside the hollow. Mosley's throat constricted. The shadow was wrong. It was all out of proportion to the man-beast in the crevice. And it was growing right before his eyes, taking shape, the bare outline of wings silhouetted....

"Get ready, men!" He settled his revolver on the railing. His hands were trembling. Calm down, boy. It's just another rabid animal. "Take aim!"

What came next was not so much a growl as an explosion. For in the brief moment between Mosley's commands, the man-beast reached out with its claws and brushed the face of the ceiling. The chamber rocked as though hit by a bomb and the course of the waterfall shifted, spraying tons of water everywhere. The command to "Fire!" never came.

Screaming at the top of his lungs, the man-beast strained against the shank of rock that buttressed the ceiling. Slowly, steadily, it buckled, giving way, huge slabs plummeting down into the pool, caroming off the walls, the platform, crashing into the watery pit at the bottom of the chamber with towering geysers on impact.

The men panicked. They flung their rifles down and fled the chamber but it was too late. Desperate to escape, they jammed the narrow entrance and fought with each other to get out. The dogs went crazy and fell through a gap in the railing, a yelping tangle of claws and teeth and tails. Seconds later, the walls reached the limit of their strength. Sagging from the top, the ceiling split into pieces and came smashing down, dragging the walls with it. They swayed for a moment, fighting the force of gravity, but in the end, they could not stand alone and gave way, crumbling in huge, irregular slabs that rained down into the dust and water at the bottom.

Pinnacle Falls was the geologic heart of the Caverns. The stress of its collapse could not be confined and the shock wave radiated throughout the complex at a speed of several hundred miles an hour. Deep within the guts of the formation, the earth was shifting to take up and distribute the forces let loose. The whole of the Caverns rested on granitic bedrock, among the strongest rocks known to man. But even granite could not hold up the weight of so many thousands of tons of rock and dirt. It settled and slipped, thereby ensuring that the limestone caves could not withstand the collapse. The mechanics of the fracture would provide geologists with thesis material for years afterward. But the end result was never in doubt.

Cathedral Caverns was doomed.

4.

They were in the Ice Veils when it happened. The force of the ground slipping knocked them sprawling to the floor. A stalactite fell in front of them, shattering into a thousand pieces. The chamber lurched again and the ceiling began to crumble.

"Come on!" Bette yelled. She grabbed Marcy's hand and pulled her to her feet. "We've got to get out of here!"

They scrambled back to the main tunnel, stumbling to keep their balance as the flooring swayed underneath them. Jimmy tripped over a board that had cracked. Getting up, a safety lamp grazed his head before crashing to the ground. The bare wires sticking out of the wall crackled and sparked. A puff of smoke erupted.

"Jimmy!" Bette went back to help her son. His face was covered with dirt and the cut along his brow had re-opened. "Jimmy, hurry!"

Together, they hustled through the tunnel, praying the ceiling would hold until they reached the top. The floor was littered with broken chunks of ice and a deep rumble could be heard behind and below then. They had made it as far as the Ice Veils before the collapse began; if they could somehow keep their footing, there was a chance....

Bette pulled her robe over her head and practically dragged the children on. The tunnel was widening ahead, there was more light. God, make it be the main hall, please make it be the main hall. They came to a bend in the corridor just as one section of the cave wall buckled and careened on top of them.

She pulled her children down and huddled over them, lowering her head and waiting for the rain of dirt and rock. How could the Caverns just collapse like this? Then it came: sharp rocks, ice shards, a river of dirt that slammed into her back, nearly knocking the breath out of her. It was over in seconds and when she thought it was safe, she looked up cautiously, choking and squinting in the settling dust. Somehow, they had lived through it. She could feel a heavy layer of soil pinning them down.

The ground upended and she got awkwardly to her feet. She shook her hair and dirt went flying everywhere. Jimmy and Marcy were caked with it. At least, they were all right. Bette breathed a silent thanks. But they weren't safe yet.

They ducked some falling ice and clambered along the tunnel, skirting piles of rock and dirt, climbing over mounds when they had to, all the while heading up, toward the light that beckoned them from the end of the hall. It seemed to recede even as they approached and Bette cried out in frustration, seeing how slow their progress was. But they didn't stop, they couldn't, they plowed on with the walls crumbling behind them, the ceiling dropping huge slabs of rock all around and by the time they half-fell, half-crawled down the last of the humps of dirt, rolling over and over into the middle of the grand hall of the entrance, they were cut and bleeding, numb and deafened, aching with fatigue and lack of sleep.

Across the chamber, through the portal, she saw faces, dim outlines waving at her. Voices too and she realized it was Jasmine Stocker. And Jeanne Costa. And someone else. But before she could gather her kids and get across to them, the Caverns gave a final shuddering groan. The floor seemed to rise at one end, the portal end, and tilt steeply back toward the tunnel they had just escaped from. The wooden steps leading up to the portal tore loose from their bolts and slid along the floor to the other side. The stout pine timbers bracing the arch came loose and teetered for a second, balanced on their ends, as the floor rocked first one way, then another.

"Bette, look out! LOOK OUT!" A voice shrieked at her through the roar. She was too stunned to move in time. A dark shadow crossed her field of vision and struck the ground with a heavy thud. She heard a muffled scream.

"MOMMA--" It was Marcy, writhing in pain, her face pale and grimacing. The end of the timber had fallen across her leg, and she squirmed frantically to get loose. She burst into tears, wailing. "Momma, help me! I'm stuck!"

But before Bette could get to her, Jimmy had crawled across the heaving floor. Bette watched in amazement as her son settled to his knees and worked to secure himself a firm grip on the end of the timber. Bette caught her breath; his back and neck were straining with the load.

"Jimmy, you can't –"

But she never finished her sentence. Jimmy grunted, steadying himself against the movement of the floor, and with his neck and shoulder muscles quivering, slowly, centimeter by centimeter, lifted the heavy timber from Marcy's leg. When she was free enough to move, she slid out from underneath and Jimmy let the beam crash back to the planks. Bette felt a chill of recognition flash down her spine.

There was no time to worry about it. Already, a thick cloud of dust was boiling up out of the tunnel, choking off the air in the hall. Another timber wobbled in its foundation and toppled over. Floor planks were popping up beside them, splintering themselves with the sound of gunfire.

"Come ON!" yelled Jasmine. She was hanging over the edge of the entrance, ducking chunks of rock that rained down from the roof. A row of floodlights exploded and sent glass tinkling everywhere. They got to their feet and managed to reach the mouth of the cave just as the rear half of the floor slumped. It pitched downward, falling in on itself, and the back wall, with the tunnel gate a tangled heap of metal, collapsed on top of it.

Bette hoisted Marcy up, still clutching her ankle, and Jasmine grunted and pulled her up and through. She disappeared for a second, Jimmy didn't wait; he clawed his way up and over the lip to safety right behind them.

Bette could feel the floor shifting once again. The last time, she told herself. She dared not look behind. The dust was stifling and she couldn't tell if she was crying or her eyes were watering from the ash. After what seemed forever, Jasmine reappeared. Jeanne was with her. They lowered their hands; Bette took one of each.

"Up you go," said Jeanne. They strained and Bette kicked in the air, before butting into the wall itself. She walked her way up the side until they had enough leverage to pivot her over the edge and out.

She almost fell down the steps to the pavement of the parking lot. Jeanne caught her just in time.

"We can't stay here, honey." She helped Bette down the stairs. Her legs were wobbly but the cool air felt good on her skin. She coughed and cried at the same time. At the bottom, Jeanne guided her over to the others. They were standing in the middle of the lot, a few dozen feet from the stone steps.

Bette was shaking. When they were clear of the Caverns, Jeanne embraced her tightly. She didn't want to let go. Only Marcy's sobbing brought her back to life. She stooped down and kissed her daughter gently on the forehead. She got dust and blood in her mouth but that was okay.

"How is it, honey?" She touched her ankle gingerly.

"I think it's broken, Momma." She swallowed some more tears and sniffed, wiping her eyes with a grimy hand. "It hurts."

"I know it does. You can thank your brother for getting you out.'' Bette pulled Jimmy against her chest and hugged him for a few minutes. "What would we have done without you?" For the first time, Jimmy didn't squirm to get free. He hugged back just as hard.

The loud screech of wooden timbers being bent drew their attention back to the cave. Even in the dark, they could see the smoke and dust pouring out of the portal. There was a grinding roar and rivulets of stone shook loose from the face of the mountain and clattered down to the pavement.

"It's over," said Jasmine, when the latest convulsion finally subsided.

Bette stood there, staring at the settling dust, holding Jimmy's head against her hip. "Is it?" she said, to no one in particular. "I wonder." Where once there had been a mighty stone arch, in the aftermath of the collapse, the entrance to the Caverns was now a hole, barely big enough for a small dog. Even that night not last the hour. They could feel a distant vibration under their feet, under the asphalt. Deep below, forces were gathering, equalizing strains and stresses. It wouldn't be safe again in the area for months.

"It's my fault," she muttered at last. She couldn't tear her gaze from that hole.

"What did you say?'' Jeanne came over and put her arms around Bette. "Are you okay, honey?"

"I said it was my fault, what happened to Alex." Strange that she felt so little sorrow now. Maybe it was fatigue. Maybe somewhere in their long flight to escape, she had come to accept the change that had befallen him, had distanced herself from the man she had loved. "I didn't give him the love he needed."

Jeanne was trying to wipe the worst of the dirt from her face with a Kleenex. "What on earth are you babbling about? Of course you loved him."

Bette shook her head. "I drove him to accept the demon."

Jeanne clucked reproachfully. "You're talking nonsense, woman. Let's get you back to the car and home into a warm bed. Then you'll feel a lot better."

The women slowly trudged across the lot to Jasmine's car, still parked by Walt Ames' pickup. The smoke from the fire in town still hung heavy in the air but the night was waning. Streaks of orange could be seen through the trees to the east. The whine of crickets was dying in the bushes; high overhead, a flock of starlings greeted the first light. The women walked in silence for awhile. Marcy hobbled with them, one arm around Jimmy's shoulder.

Bette noticed the wet in Jasmine's eyes. She was struggling not to cry. We've all lost someone. She felt her throat tighten as the thought sank in. Keeping a lid on the pain was going to be hard.

Jasmine opened the door and climbed in to start the engine. The others followed. But before all the doors could be closed, Jasmine turned around and said. "The engine's dead. I think it's the battery." Jeanne groaned as she tried it again. There was a click and a buzz, but no start.

''Well, that means we'll have to take Walt's truck." Jeanne said. They climbed out again. "Anybody know how to drive it?"

Hannah waved at them, nodding her head. She went over to the door and opened it. But the keys were gone. Her shoulders slumped and she shut the door and came back. She shook her head, motioning with her hand that she couldn't start it.

"Wonderful," said Jeanne. "And with Marcy's ankle." She sighed. "I guess we'll have to walk. Going down that steep drive isn't going to be easy."

"I can make it," Marcy said. She patted Jimmy on the side of his head. "This is better than a crutch."

"It's a long walk back to town," said Bette. "You sure you can do it?"

"Yep. It doesn't even hurt anymore." She grinned up at her mother.

"We don't have much of a choice," said Jasmine. She wiped her eyes with a sleeve.

Hannah signaled for Jimmy to let go of his sister. He did so reluctantly, and Hannah stooped down and lifted Marcy up onto her shoulders. She let her get situated and patted her knees affectionately. Marcy laughed.

"It's like riding Mr. Beems' horse, Momma."

Hannah nodded and the other women smiled back. Jeanne collected all their purses from the car and they set off through the gate, heading down the long twisting driveway toward Wick- ham Road.

They walked for a few minutes in silence. The ground rumbled beneath their feet. Finally, Bette could stand the quiet no longer. Now especially she didn't want to be alone with her thoughts.

"What I don't understand is Joe Burdette," she said. "Why did he do what he did? It doesn't make sense." She felt Hannah stiffen beside her.

Jasmine started to reply but stopped. She touched Hannah's arm and they exchanged glances. Hannah nodded slightly. "I can explain it. Now. Hannah wrote it out for me a few hours ago."

Bette looked at Hannah. "Then...the rumors—they're true? About your--"

Again, she nodded. She fingered the bandage around her neck.

"Joe murdered his own father," Jasmine told them. "It was back in 1940, wasn't it, Hannah? Edd was working his own land, on the Blanchard property, and some of the Gilmers' land too, to make up for Joe's brother Kenny getting little Ellen Gilmer pregnant. He worked himself half to death. Caught fever and pneumonia. He was suffering something awful and Joe couldn't stand it. So he went into his room one night and smothered him with a pillow to put an end to it. And that preyed on Joe all these years. He never could come to grips with the fact that it was he, not the Gilmers or the people of Scotland Lake, that killed his Daddy."

"What's that got to do with us?" Bette asked. They were nearing the bottom of the driveway.

"Joe knew the Caverns well, better than Greta Blanchard or anyone. He dug Edd's body up after the funeral and took it to the Caverns. Hannah's not real sure why; she said it was probably because he was scared the truth would come out and he wanted to pretend his Daddy was still alive. He fixed him up with some cosmetics and stuff he stole from Ed Beeson. Hannah said he used to go off at all hours of the night. She always wondered where. Then, not long ago, she followed him. He went right to the Caverns, way down to a place she had never been to before, somewhere beyond the explored parts. That's when she found the real truth."

"Which was?"

"Joe had his Daddy's corpse down there, all right. He'd talk to it and tell jokes to it and ask questions of it just like it was alive. But that wasn't the only corpse down there. She found a dozen or so more, all of them most likely the bodies of some of the people that's been killed around here the last ten years. And there was some kind of treasure too."

They had made it to Wickham Road and Bette stopped at the foot of the driveway. "Treasure? Are you serious?"

Jasmine nodded, with an eye on Hannah. She was watching them intently. "Stuff the Cherokee put down there a long time ago. Trinkets and jewelry and things like that. Priceless artifacts, a hundred times more valuable than what Greta found twenty years ago. And she never knew about any of this. Joe was going to try and run everybody off from town and haul that stuff up to sell it. He could have made a fortune if he had. Apparently, he thought the town owed it to him, owed it to the Burdettes for the way they treated them when they first came. He wanted to scare the townspeople away and leave Bears Knob and this whole area as a sort of memorial. And he could have lived pretty high off the hog with the proceeds too." She shook her head and tried to avoid Hannah's stare. "Joe worshipped his Daddy. He wanted to die too, he wanted to be just like him in everything." Tears had come to Hannah's eyes. She made no move to wipe them away. Jasmine went on. "I guess he had his own demon--the secret was killing him from the inside. When Sam was killed, that was the last straw. He couldn't take it anymore. You and Alex were a threat. You were newcomers coming in at a time he thought he had just about gotten the town on edge and ready to pack up and leave. You didn't scare. You didn't run. He thought his plan was coming unraveled, I guess. He must have been desperate. And worried." She left her words hanging for a moment, then finished. "It's awful –" she reached for Hannah's hands and squeezed them. "For all of us –" She choked back a sob.

Jeanne laid a hand on Jasmine's shoulder. "Come on. Let's go home. We could all use some breakfast and a good sleep."

The sun came up a few minutes later, a bright orange ball dulled by the pall of smoke in the air. Six people, four women and two children, trekked slowly back toward the little hamlet of Scotland Lake. Along a dusty, deserted stretch of Wickham Road, there were no cars that morning. And only a few trucks.

Autumn comes early to the mountains of North Carolina. It was only October but the leaves had already started to change. Despite the appearance of the morning sun, the air was cold and hazy and a coat of frost glistened on the leaves.

And somewhere, very nearby, a gentle breeze stirred in the branches.
EPILOGUE

December, 1975

"The Southern Appalachians are full of little towns and villages so small they don't even rate a listing on most of the maps you can buy. Everyone has their favorite tale to tell about the little wide spot in the road where they got that speeding ticket, or the bleak little corner of nowhere where their radiator gave out. Summer trips through these lovely old hills are full of such stories and the winter ski crowds surely have their own to tell.

"But the account related recently to this reporter by a Mr. Sherman Graham, long-haul driver for the Loudoun Moving Company of Knoxville, Tennessee, on a routine trip through the mountains of the Nantahala Range in western North Carolina must rank as one of the strangest tales ever told about these myth-drenched surroundings.

"The incident that formed the basis of his narrative occurred last October, on a hazy Thursday morning, while Mr. Graham was piloting his rig toward the tiny isolated burgh of Scotland Lake. It was on that morning, just shortly after dawn, on a deserted stretch of U.S. 19 southwest of town, that the driver came across a group of women and children, wandering aimlessly beside the road, red-eyed from tears and exhaustion, and seemingly in shock.

"Graham pulled his eighteen-wheeler off onto a shoulder of the road--he specifically recalls smelling the smoke of a woods fire in the air--and hiked back to see if the group needed any help. 'They seemed to be in a daze,' the driver reported later, 'as if they had been walking around those woods all night long. I offered them a lift to town and you'd a thought I was Christ the Savior from the way they started crying and falling all over me.'

"It was on the ride back to the town of Scotland Lake that the women, of whom there were four, related the most incredible story of mass murder and the catastrophic collapse of an underground cavern in the area, a major tourist attraction and revenue-producer for the town, that the driver had ever heard.

"According to the accounts, which are still sketchy as of this writing, a party of explorers, five men in all, were trapped inside the cave, known as Cathedral Caverns, when it collapsed. Though no bodies have been recovered--digging is just now getting underway--all of the women were quite convinced that no one could have survived the accident. As to what could have caused the cave-in, the women were reticent to speculate.

"Two of the women were apparently married to two of the explorers who lost their lives. The North Carolina State Department of Public Safety issued a press release yesterday stating that it was unlikely that anyone could have survived for two and a half months buried inside the caves, although rescue efforts were continuing for the time being. But the Departmental Director, Dr. William Reinke, warned that digging operations would soon have to be curtailed for the winter because of unseasonably early and heavy snow showers which have made most of the major roads in the area nearly impassable. He wouldn't comment on the possibility of resuming efforts at a later time.

"When asked by this reporter why he had waited so long to reveal this bizarre tale of hillbilly tragedy and mountain mayhem, Mr. Graham replied that he had found it difficult to believe at first. He stated that he had almost put the tale out of his mind as some kind of hallucination on the part of the women, when he heard of the Public Safety Department's release and came forward with his own version of what had happened. 'I just thought it was some guff they made up,' he said. 'That is 'till I heard of them closing down the Caverns. That's when I knew there had to be somethin' to it.'"

Bernice Gavin lay the wrinkled copy of the Atlanta Constitution down on the breakfast table and lifted a steaming cup of coffee to her lips. She gazed across the table at Bette Perry. "Do you want me to read on?"

There was no reply. Bette stirred a spoon idly through her own coffee. She was deep in thought, staring out the bay window at something in the backyard.

"Bette?"

"Huh?"

"Would you like me to finish the article? You don't look like you're paying attention."

"Please—" she took a sip from her coffee, "go on. I was just thinking." She forced a smile. She was grateful that Alex's maternal grandmother had offered to take them in. The tidy little brick and wood house on Adele Road in Atlanta was a long way from Scotland Lake. She had tried to forget they had ever lived there; it wasn't possible to expunge all the memories but she had managed to scrub the worst of them from her mind. It seemed like a century had passed since they had left. She smiled again. "Really, I'd like to hear the rest of it."

Bernice pursed her lips and patted her silvery-white hair back into place. "If you say so." She read on.

Bette closed her eyes and listened for awhile. She smiled one more time, this time inside. It was working, even now. The longer she listened, the more Bernice's words blurred together into a buzz, becoming indistinct, indecipherable. It wouldn't be long before the memory was gone forever. She'd worked hard on forgetting.

It was cold and blustery that gray December morning. Bernice had pulled an old electric foot heater into the breakfast nook and the warm air circulating under the table felt good. A strong wind made the windows creak and the green Christmas boughs she had tied to the sash this morning jittered a little.

She couldn't say she was happy with her life, not exactly. They were living comfortably enough, her and Marcy and Jimmy with Mrs. Gavin. The Major had died ten years ago but he was still a palpable presence in the house. And to Bernice, who prattled on as though he were right there at the table with them, puffing away at his big black cigar while he scanned the morning paper.

As soon as Christmas was over, Bette had promised herself she would find herself a job. She looked forward to having her days filled with work again.

Bernice droned on, intent on reading aloud every last word of the article she had noticed awhile earlier. Bette reminded herself to nod and murmur every so often, just to be sociable. She didn't want to hurt the woman's feelings.

But she was apprehensive about something, and she didn't know what. The feeling had been with her all morning. Maybe she was coming down with a cold. She watched Jimmy playing with something he had found in the dirt and wondered.

The last few nights, she had read the tattered remains of Rita Donze's diary from cover to cover. She kept it well hidden from Bernice, preferring to avoid questions she didn't know how to answer. Sleep had not come often; she supposed she may have dozed at times, but it was fitful and restless. One fear above all others haunted her, that the memory would not die, that it would live on, and fester in her mind, a growing entity that would stalk her dreams and thoughts from now until her death. She couldn't endure that, she knew it.

She wouldn't endure it.

Was it possible? The idea lay in front of her like a stone before a child, waiting to be overturned and examined. The thought that Rita might be right, that the demon wouldn't die, couldn't die, that it would somehow live on in Perry blood, was almost too much to bear.

She squirmed at the thought that she might never be able to completely trust her own children again. No, I won't think that. Ever. But, what if? The stone remained there, unexamined.

She realized then, in that very moment, what had to be done. Such ambivalence had cost her a husband. She would find a new way, a better way, to love her children, to be with them and a part of them. They must never doubt, even for a second, how much she loved them. Anything less than that and it was easy to see how Marcy, or Jimmy, might succumb to their own personal demons. Evil surfaces most readily in those who are not loved.

I made that mistake with Alex. But I won't this time.

She watched Jimmy through the bay window. He had been out there in the backyard, bundled up in his bright blue parka and hood, for the better part of the morning. He had insisted on going out, even though it was freezing cold.

He was scrounging in the dirt beside a withered, barren old elm tree, unaware of the fact he was being watched. Bette leaned forward, elbows on her knees, to see what he was doing.

She smiled at his curiosity. He was smart and strong. She wouldn't have to worry about him.

Jimmy scratched about in the dirt for a few minutes, digging with his fingers. He was obviously intent on the task at hand and, with a little patience, he finally found what he had been looking for. He smiled triumphantly and pulled out a long black caterpillar, holding it up to examine. This one wasn't going to get away. Bette watched the worm curl around his hand as he stood up and shuffled over to the tree. From there, her view was partially blocked and she returned her attention to Bernice, still reading the paper out loud.

She never saw Jimmy skewer the caterpillar with a sharp stick he had made and impale it on the bark of the old elm tree.

THE END?

About the Author

Philip Bosshardt is a native of Atlanta, Georgia. He recently retired but worked for over 20 years 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 27 years. He's also a Georgia Tech graduate in Industrial Engineering. He loves water sports in any form and swims 3 miles a week in anything resembling water. He and his wife have no children.

For technical and background details on his series Tales of the Quantum Corps, visit his blog Quantum Corps Times at http://qcorpstimes.blogspot.com. For details on other books in this series, visit his website at http://philbosshardt.wix.com/philip-bosshardt or learn about other books by Philip Bosshardt by visiting www.smashwords.com.

To get a peek at Philip Bosshardt's notes and the backstory on how The Farpool Stories were created, recent reviews, excerpts from his upcoming book The Farpool: Convergence (due out in summer 2018) and general updates on the writing life, visit his blog The Word Shed at: http://thewdshed.blogspot.com.

