Ben Merrill falls on top of her full-length, all one hundred and ninety pounds of him. The breath she has drawn to scream with whooshes out in a gusty, almost silent sigh instead. Ben, who has never even danced with a woman, let alone lain on top of one like this, is instantly excited by the el of her struggling beneath him. He wriggles against her, laughing, and when she rakes her nails down his cheek he barely feels it. The way it seems to him, he's all c.o.c.k and a yard long. When she tries to roll over and get out from under that way, he rolls with her, lets her be on top, and he is totally surprised when she drives her forehead down on his. He sees stars, but he is eighteen years old, as strong as he will ever be, and he loses neither consciousness nor his erection.

Oren Peebles tears away the back of her dress, laughing. 'Pig-pile!' he cries in a breathy little whisper, and drops on top of her. Now he is dry-humping her topside and Ben is dry-humping just as enthusiastically from underneath, dry-humping like a billygoat even with the blood pouring down the sides of his head from the split in the center of his brow, and she knows that if she can't scream she is lost. If she can scream and if Kito hears, he'll run and get help, run and get Reg - But before she can try again, ole ma.s.sa is squatting beside her and showing her a long-bladed knife. 'Make a sound and I'll cut your nose off,' he says, and that's when she gives up. They have brought her down after all, partly because she laughed at the wrong time, mostly out of pure buggardly bad luck. Now they will not be stopped, and best that Kito should stay away - please G.o.d keep him back where he was, it was a good patch of berries, one that should keep him occupied an hour or more. He loves berry-picking, and it won't take these men an hour. Harry Auster yanks her hair back, tears her dress off one shoulder, and begins to sucker on her neck.

Ole ma.s.sa the only one not at her. Old ma.s.sa standing back, looking both ways along The Street, his eyes slitted and wary; old ma.s.sa look like a mangy timber-wolf done eaten a whole generation of chickenhouse chickens while managing to avoid every trap and snare. 'Hey Irish, quit on her a minute,' he tells Harry, then widens his wise gaze to the others. 'Get her in the puckies, you d.a.m.n fools. Get her in there deep.'

They don't. They can't. They are too eager to have her. They arm-yank her behind the forehead of gray rock and call it good. She doesn't pray easily but she prays now. She prays for them to let her live. She prays for Kito to stay clear, to keep filling his bucket slow by eating every third handful. She prays that if he does take a notion to catch up with her, he will see what's happening and run the other way as fast as he can, run silent and get Reg.

'Stick this in your mouth,' George Armbruster pants. 'And don't you bite me, you b.i.t.c.h.'

They take her top and bottom, back and front, two and three at a time. They take her where anybody coming along can't help but see them, and ole ma.s.sa stands off a little, looking first at the panting young men grouped around her, kneeling with their trousers down and their thighs scratched from the bushes they are kneeling in, then he peers up and down the path with his wild and wary eyes. Incredibly, one of them - it is Fred Dean - says 'Sorry, ma'am' after he's shot his load feels like halfway up to east bejeezus. It's as if he accidentally kicked her in the shin while crossing his legs.

And it doesn't end. There's come down her throat, come running down the crack of her a.s.s, the young one has bitten the blood right out of her left breast, and it doesn't end. They are young, and by the time the last one has finished, the first one, oh G.o.d, the first one is ready again. Across the river the Methodists are now singing 'Blessed a.s.surance, Jesus Is Mine' and as ole ma.s.sa approaches her she thinks, It's almost over, woman, he the last, hold on hold steady and it be over. It's almost over, woman, he the last, hold on hold steady and it be over. He looks at the skinny redhead and the one who keeps squinching his eye up and tossing his head and tells them to watch the path, he's going to take his turn now that she's broke in. He looks at the skinny redhead and the one who keeps squinching his eye up and tossing his head and tells them to watch the path, he's going to take his turn now that she's broke in.

He unbuckles his belt, he unb.u.t.tons his flies, he pushes down his underwear - dirty black at the knees and dirty yellow at the crotch-and as he drops a knee on either side of her she sees that ole ma.s.sa' s little ma.s.sa is just as floppy as a snake with its neck broke and before she can stop it, that raucous laugh bursts all unexpected from her again - even lying here covered with the hot jelly spend of her rapists, she can't help but see the funny side.

'Shut up!' Devore growls at her, and smashes the heel of one hard hand across her face, breaking her cheekbone and her nose. 'Shut up that howling!'

'Reckon it might get stiffer if it was one of your boys layin here with his rosy red a.s.s stuck up in the air, sugar?' she asks, and then, For the last time, Sara laughs.

Devore draws his hand back to hit her again, his naked loins lying against her naked loins, his p.e.n.i.s a flaccid worm between them. But before he can bring the hand down a child's voice cries, 'Ma! What they doin to you, Ma? Git off my mama, you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!' Devore draws his hand back to hit her again, his naked loins lying against her naked loins, his p.e.n.i.s a flaccid worm between them. But before he can bring the hand down a child's voice cries, 'Ma! What they doin to you, Ma? Git off my mama, you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!'

She sits up in spite of Devore's weight, her laughter dying, her wide eyes searching Kito out and finding him, a slim young boy of eight standing on The Street, dressed in overalls and a straw hat and brand-new canvas shoes, carrying a tin bucket in one hand. His lips are blue with juice. His eyes are wide with confusion and fright.

'Run, Kito!' she screams. she screams. 'Run away h - ' 'Run away h - '

Red fire explodes in her head,' she swoons back into the bushes, hearing ole ma.s.sa from a great distance: 'Get him. Da.s.sn't let him ramble, now.' Red fire explodes in her head,' she swoons back into the bushes, hearing ole ma.s.sa from a great distance: 'Get him. Da.s.sn't let him ramble, now.'

Then she's going down a long dark slope, she's lost in a Ghost House corridor that leads only deeper and deeper into its own convoluted bowels,' from that deep falling place she hears him, she hears, her darling one, he is screaming. I heard him screaming as I knelt by the gray rock with my carry-bag beside me and no idea how I'd gotten to where I was - I certainly had no memory of walking here. I was crying in shock and horror and pity. Was she crazy? Well, no wonder. No f.u.c.king wonder. The rain was steady but no longer apocalyptic. I stared at my fishy-white hands on the gray rock for a few seconds, then looked around. Devore and the others were gone.

The ripe and ga.s.sy stench of decay filled my nose - it was like a physical a.s.sault. I fumbled in the carry-bag, found the Stenomask Rommie and George had given me as a joke, and slipped it over my mouth and nose with fingers that felt numb and distant. I breathed shallowly and tentatively. Better. Not a lot, but enough to keep from fleeing, which was undoubtedly what she wanted.

'No!' she cried from somewhere behind me as I grabbed the spade and dug in. I tore a great mouth in the ground with the first swipe, and each subsequent one deepened and widened it. The earth was soft and yielding, woven through with mats of thin roots which parted easily under the blade.

'No! Don't you dare!'

I wouldn't look around, wouldn't give her a chance to push me away. She was stronger down here, perhaps because it had happened here. Was that possible? I didn't know and didn't care. All I cared about was getting this done. Where the roots were thicker, I hacked through them with the pruning knife.

'Leave me be!' 'Leave me be!'

Now I did did look around, risked one quick glance because of the unnatural crackling sounds which had accompanied her voice - which now seemed to look around, risked one quick glance because of the unnatural crackling sounds which had accompanied her voice - which now seemed to make make her voice. The Green Lady was gone. The birch had somehow become Sara Tidwell: it was Sara's face growing out of the criss-crossing branches and shiny leaves. That rain-slicked face swayed, dissolved, came together, melted away, came together again. For a moment all the mystery I had sensed down here was revealed. Her damp shifting eyes were utterly human. They stared at me with hate and supplication. her voice. The Green Lady was gone. The birch had somehow become Sara Tidwell: it was Sara's face growing out of the criss-crossing branches and shiny leaves. That rain-slicked face swayed, dissolved, came together, melted away, came together again. For a moment all the mystery I had sensed down here was revealed. Her damp shifting eyes were utterly human. They stared at me with hate and supplication.

'I ain't done!' she cried in a cracked, breaking voice. 'He was the worst, don't you understand? He was the worst and it's his blood in her and I won't rest until I have it out! I have it out!'

There was a gruesome ripping sound. She had inhabited the birch, made it into a physical body of some sort and intended to tear it free of the earth. She would come and get me with it if she could; kill me with it if she could. Strangle me in limber branches. Stuff me with leaves until I looked like a Christmas decoration.

'No matter how much of a monster he was, Kyra had nothing to do with what he did,' I said. 'And you won't have her.'

'Yes I will! will!' the Green Lady screamed. The ripping, rending sounds were louder now. They were joined by a hissing, shaky crackle. I didn't look around again. I didn't dare dare look around. I dug faster instead. 'Yes I look around. I dug faster instead. 'Yes I will will have her!' she cried, and now the voice was closer. She was coming for me but I refused to see; when it comes to walking trees and bushes, I'll stick to have her!' she cried, and now the voice was closer. She was coming for me but I refused to see; when it comes to walking trees and bushes, I'll stick to Macbeth Macbeth, thanks. 'I will will have her! He took mine and have her! He took mine and I mean to take his! I mean to take his!'

'Go away,' a new voice said.

The spade loosened in my hands, almost fell. I turned and saw Jo standing below me and to my right. She was looking at Sara, who had materialized into a lunatic's hallucination - a monstrous greenish-black thing that slipped with every step it tried to walk along The Street. She had left the birch behind yet a.s.sumed its vitality somehow - the actual tree huddled behind her, black and shrivelled and dead. The creature born of it looked like the Bride of Frankenstein as sculpted by Pica.s.so. In it, Sara's face came and went, came and went.

The Shape The Shape, I thought coldly. It was always real . . . and if it was always me, it was always her, too. It was always real . . . and if it was always me, it was always her, too.

Jo was dressed in the white shirt and yellow slacks she'd had on the day she died. I couldn't see the lake through her as I had been able to see it through Devore and Devore's young friends; she had materialized herself completely. I felt a curious draining draining sensation at the back of my skull and thought I knew how. sensation at the back of my skull and thought I knew how.

'Git out, b.i.t.c.h!' the Sara-thing snarled. It raised its arms toward Jo as it had raised them to me in my worst nightmares.

'Not at all.' Jo's voice remained calm. She turned toward me. 'Hurry, Mike. You have to be quick. It's not really her anymore. She's let one of the Outsiders in, and they're very dangerous.'

'Jo, I love you.'

'I love you t - '

Sara shrieked and then began to spin. Leaves and branches blurred together and lost coherence; it was like watching something liquefy in a blender. The ent.i.ty which had only looked a little like a woman to begin with now dropped its masquerade entirely. Something elemental and grotesquely inhuman began to form out of the maelstrom. It leaped at my wife. When it struck her, the color and solidity left Jo as if slapped away by a huge hand. She became a phantom struggling with the thing which raved and shrieked and clawed at her.

'Hurry, Mike!' 'Hurry, Mike!' she screamed. she screamed. 'Hurry!' 'Hurry!'

I bent to the job.

The spade struck something that wasn't dirt, wasn't stone, wasn't wood. I sc.r.a.ped along it, revealing a filthy mold-crusted swatch of canvas. Now I dug like a madman, wanting to clear as much of the buried object as I could, wanting to fatten my chances of success as much as I could. Behind me, the Shape screamed in fury and my wife screamed in pain. Sara had given up part of her discorporate self in order to gain her revenge, had let in something Jo called an Outsider. I had no idea what that might be and never wanted wanted to know. Sara was its conduit, I knew that much. And if I could take care of her in time - to know. Sara was its conduit, I knew that much. And if I could take care of her in time - I reached into the dripping hole, slapping wet earth from the ancient canvas. Faint stencilled letters appeared when I did: J.M. MCCURDIE SAWMILL. Mccurdie's had burned in the fires of '33, I knew. I'd seen a picture of it in flames somewhere. As I seized the canvas, the tips of my fingers punching through and letting out a fresh billow of green and ga.s.sy stench, I could hear grunting. I could hear Devore. He's lying on top of her and grunting like a pig. Sara is semiconscious, muttering unintelligibly through bruised lips which are shiny with blood. Devore is looking back over his shoulder at Draper Finney and Fred Dean. They have raced after the boy and brought him back, but he won't stop yelling, he's yelling to beat the band, yelling to wake the dead, and if they can hear the Methodists singing 'How I Love to Tell the Story' over here, then they may be able to hear the yowling n.i.g.g.e.r over there. Devore says 'Put him in the water, shut him up.' The minute he says it, as though the words are magic words, his c.o.c.k begins to stiffen. Devore. He's lying on top of her and grunting like a pig. Sara is semiconscious, muttering unintelligibly through bruised lips which are shiny with blood. Devore is looking back over his shoulder at Draper Finney and Fred Dean. They have raced after the boy and brought him back, but he won't stop yelling, he's yelling to beat the band, yelling to wake the dead, and if they can hear the Methodists singing 'How I Love to Tell the Story' over here, then they may be able to hear the yowling n.i.g.g.e.r over there. Devore says 'Put him in the water, shut him up.' The minute he says it, as though the words are magic words, his c.o.c.k begins to stiffen.

'What do you mean?' Ben Merrill asks.

'You know G.o.ddam well,' Jared says. He pants the words out, jerking his hips as he speaks. His narrow a.s.s gleams in the afternoon light. 'He seen us! You want to cut his throat, get his blood all over you? Fine by me. Here. Take my knife, be my guest!'

'N-No, Jared!' Ben cries in horror, actually seeming to cringe at the sight of the knife. 'N-No, Jared!' Ben cries in horror, actually seeming to cringe at the sight of the knife.

He is finally ready. It takes him a little longer, that's all, he ain't a kid like these other ones. But now - ! Never mind her smart mouth, never mind her insolent way of laughing, never mind the whole township. Let them all show up and watch if they like. He slips it to her, what she's wanted all along, what all her kind want. He slips it in and sinks it deep. He continues giving orders even as he rapes her. Up and down his a.s.s goes, tick-tock, just like a cat's tail. 'Somebody take care of him! Or do you want to spend forty years rotting in Shawshank because of a n.i.g.g.e.r boy's tattle?'

Ben seizes one of Kito Tidwell's arms, Oren Peebles the other, but by the time they have dragged him as far as the embankment they have lost their heart. Raping an uppity n.i.g.g.e.r woman with the gall to laugh at Jared when he fell down and split his britches is one thing. Drowning a scared kid like a kitten in a mud-puddle . . . that's another one altogether. Ben seizes one of Kito Tidwell's arms, Oren Peebles the other, but by the time they have dragged him as far as the embankment they have lost their heart. Raping an uppity n.i.g.g.e.r woman with the gall to laugh at Jared when he fell down and split his britches is one thing. Drowning a scared kid like a kitten in a mud-puddle . . . that's another one altogether.

They loosen their grip, staring into each other's haunted eyes, and Kito pulls free.

'Run, honey!' Sara cries. 'Run away and get - 'Jared clamps his hands around her throat and begins choking.

The boy trips over his own berry bucket and thumps gracelessly to the ground. Harry and Draper recapture him easily. 'What you going to do? ' Draper asks in a kind of desperate whine, and Harry replies 'What I have to.' That's what he replied, and now I was going to do what I had to - in spite of the stench, in spite of Sara, in spite of my dead wife's shrieks. I hauled the roll of canvas out of the ground. The ropes which had tied it shut at either end held, but the roll itself split down the middle with a hideous burping sound.

'Hurry!' 'Hurry!' Jo cried. Jo cried. 'I can't hold it much longer!' 'I can't hold it much longer!'

It snarled; it bayed like a dog. There was a loud wooden crunch, like a door being slammed hard enough to splinter, and Jo wailed. I grabbed for the carry-bag with Slips 'n Greens printed on the front and tore it open as Harry - the others call him Irish because of his carrot-colored hair - grabs the struggling kid in a clumsy kind of bearhug and jumps into the lake with him. The kid struggles harder than ever,' his straw hat comes off and floats on the water. 'Get that!' Harry pants. Fred Dean kneels and fishes out the dripping hat. Fred's eyes are dazed, he's got the look of a fighter about one round from hitting the canvas. Behind them Sara Tidwell has begun to rattle deep in her chest and throat like the sight of the boy's clenching hand, these sounds will haunt Draper Finney until his final dive into Eades Quarry. Jared sinks his fingers deeper, pumping and choking at the same time, the sweat pouring off him. No amount of washing will take the smell of that sweat out of these clothes, and when he begins to think of it as 'murder-sweat,' he burns the clothes to get shed of it.

Harry Auster wants to be shed of it all to be shed of it and never see these men again, most of all Jared Devore, who he now thinks must be Lord Satan himself. Harry cannot go home and face his father unless this nightmare is over, buried. And his mother! How can he ever face his beloved mother, Bridget Auster with her round sweet Irish face and graying hair and comforting shelf of bosom, Bridget who has always had a kind word or a soothing handler him, Bridget Auster who has been Saved, shed in the Blood of the Lamb, Bridget Auster who is even now serving pies at the picnic they're having at the new church, Bridget Auster who is mamma; how can he ever look at her again - or she him - if he has to stand in court on a charge of raping and beating a woman, even a black woman?

So he yanks the clinging boy away - Kito scratches him once, just a nick on the side of the neck, and that night Harry will tell his mamma it was a bush-p.r.i.c.ker that caught him unawares and he will let her put a kiss on it - and then he plunges the child into the lake. Kito looks up at him, his face shimmering, and Harry sees a little fish flick by. A perch, he thinks. For an instant he wonders what the boy must see, looking up through the silver shield of the surface at the face of the fellow who's holding him down, the fellow who's drowning him, and then Harry pushes that away. Just a n.i.g.g.e.r, Just a n.i.g.g.e.r, he reminds himself desperately. he reminds himself desperately. That's all he is, just a n.i.g.g.e.r. No kin of yours. That's all he is, just a n.i.g.g.e.r. No kin of yours.

Kito's arm comes out of the water - his dripping dark-brown arm. Harry pulls back, not wanting to be clawed, but the hand doesn't reach for him, only sticks straight up. The fingers curl into a fist. Open. Curl into a fist. Open. Curl into a fist. The boy's thrashing begins to ease, the kicking feet begin to slow down, the eyes looking up into Harry's eyes are taking on a curiously dreamy look, and still that brown arm sticks straight up, still the hand opens and closes, opens and closes. Draper Finney stands on the sh.o.r.e crying, sure that now someone will come along, now someone will see the terrible thing they have done - the terrible thing they are in fact still doing. Be sure your sin will find you out, it says in the Good Book. Be sure. Be sure your sin will find you out, it says in the Good Book. Be sure. He opens his mouth to tell Harry to quit, maybe it's still not too late to take it back, let him up, let him live, but no sound comes out. Behind him Sara is choking her last. In front of him her drowning son's hand opens and closes, opens and closes, the reflection of it shimmering on the water, and Draper thinks He opens his mouth to tell Harry to quit, maybe it's still not too late to take it back, let him up, let him live, but no sound comes out. Behind him Sara is choking her last. In front of him her drowning son's hand opens and closes, opens and closes, the reflection of it shimmering on the water, and Draper thinks Won't it stop doing that, won't it ever stop doing that? Won't it stop doing that, won't it ever stop doing that? And as if it were a prayer that something is now answering, the boy's locked elbow begins to bend and his arm begins to sag; the fingers begin to close again into a fist and then stop. For a moment the hand wavers and then And as if it were a prayer that something is now answering, the boy's locked elbow begins to bend and his arm begins to sag; the fingers begin to close again into a fist and then stop. For a moment the hand wavers and then I slammed the heel of my hand into the center of my forehead to clear these phantoms away. Behind me there was a frenzied snap and crackle of wet bushes as Jo and whatever she was holding back continued to struggle. I put my hands inside the split in the canvas like a doctor spreading a wound. I yanked. There was a low ripping sound as the roll tore the rest of the way up and down. I slammed the heel of my hand into the center of my forehead to clear these phantoms away. Behind me there was a frenzied snap and crackle of wet bushes as Jo and whatever she was holding back continued to struggle. I put my hands inside the split in the canvas like a doctor spreading a wound. I yanked. There was a low ripping sound as the roll tore the rest of the way up and down.

Inside was what remained of them - two yellowed skulls, forehead to forehead as if in intimate conversation, a woman's faded red leather belt, a molder of clothes . . . and a heap of bones. Two ribcages, one large and one small. Two sets of legs, one long and one short. The early remains of Sara and Kito Tidwell, buried here by the lake for almost a hundred years.

The larger of the two skulls turned. It glared at me with its empty eyesockets. Its teeth chattered as if it would bite me, and the bones below it began a tenebrous, jittery stirring. Some broke apart immediately; all were soft and pitted. The red belt stirred restlessly and the rusty buckle rose like the head of a snake.

'Mike!' 'Mike!' Jo screamed. Jo screamed. 'Quick, quick!' 'Quick, quick!'

I pulled the sack out of the carry-bag and grabbed the plastic bottle which had been inside. Lye stille, the Magnabet letters had said; another little word-trick. Another message pa.s.sed behind the unsuspecting guard's back. Sara Tidwell was a fearsome creature, but she had underestimated Jo . . . and she had underestimated the telepathy of long a.s.sociation, as well. I had gone to Slips 'n Greens, I had bought a bottle of lye, and now I opened it and poured it, smoking, over the bones of Sara and her son.

There was a hissing sound like the one you hear when you open a beer or a bottled soft drink. The belt-buckle melted. The bones turned white and crumpled like things made out of sugar - I had a nightmare image of Mexican children eating candy corpses off long sticks on the Day of the Dead. The eyesockets of Sara's skull widened as the lye filled the dark hollow where her mind, her prodigious talent, and her laughing soul had once resided. It was an expression that looked at first like surprise and then like sorrow.

The jaw fell off; the nubs of the teeth sizzled away.

The top of the skull caved in.

Spread fingerbones jittered, then melted.

'Ohhhhhh . . . ' 'Ohhhhhh . . . '

It whispered through the soaking trees like a rising wind . . . only the wind had died as the wet air caught its breath before the next onslaught. It was a sound of unspeakable grief and longing and surrender. I sensed no hate in it; her hate was gone, burned away in the corrosive I had bought in Helen Auster's shop. The sound of Sara's going was replaced by the plaintive, almost human cry of a bird, and it awakened me from the place where I had been, brought me finally and completely out of the zone. I got shakily to my feet, turned around, and looked at The Street.

Jo was still there, a dim form through which I could now see the lake and the dark clouds of the next thundersquall coming over the mountains. Something flickered beyond her - that bird venturing out of its safe covert for a peek at the re-arranged environment, perhaps - but I barely registered that. It was Jo I wanted to see, Jo who had come G.o.d knew how far and suffered G.o.d knew how much to help me. She looked exhausted, hurt, in some fundamental way diminished. But the other thing - the Outsider - was gone. Jo, standing in a ring of birch leaves so dead they looked charred, turned to me and smiled.

'Jo! We did it!'

Her mouth moved. I heard the sound, but the words were too distant to make out. She was standing right there, but she might have been calling across a wide canyon. Still, I understood her. I read the words off her lips if you prefer the rational, right out of her mind if you prefer the romantical. I prefer the latter. Marriage is a zone, too, you know. Marriage is a zone.

- So - So that's that's all right, isn't it? all right, isn't it?

I glanced down into the gaping roll of canvas and saw nothing but stubs and splinters sticking out of a noxious, uneasy paste. I got a whiff, and even through the Stenomask it made me cough and back away. Not corruption; lye. When I looked back around at Jo, she was barely there.

'Jo! Wait!'

- Can't help. Can't stay.

Words from another star system, barely glimpsed on a fading mouth. Now she was little more than eyes floating in the dark afternoon, eyes which seemed made of the lake behind them.

- Hurry . . . - Hurry . . .

She was gone. I slipped and stumbled to the place where she'd been, my feet crunching over dead birch leaves, and grabbed at nothing. What a fool I must have looked, soaked to the skin, wearing a Stenomask askew over the lower half of my face, trying to embrace the wet gray air.

I got the faintest whiff of Red perfume . . . and then only damp earth, lakewater, and the vile stink of lye running under everything. At least the smell of putrefaction was gone; that had been no more real than . . .

Than what? Than what what? Either it was all real or none of it was real. If none of it was real, I was out of my mind and ready for the Blue Wing at Juniper Hill. I looked over toward the gray rock and saw the bag of bones I had pulled out of the wet ground like a festering tooth. Lazy tendrils of smoke were still rising from its ripped length. That That much was real. So was the Green Lady, who was now a soot-colored Black Lady - as dead as the dead branch behind her, the one that seemed to point like an arm. much was real. So was the Green Lady, who was now a soot-colored Black Lady - as dead as the dead branch behind her, the one that seemed to point like an arm.

Can't help . . . can't stay . . . hurry. Can't help . . . can't stay . . . hurry.

Couldn't help with what? What more help did I need? It was done, wasn't it? Sara was gone: spirit follows bone, good night sweet ladies, G.o.d grant she lye stille.

And still a kind of stinking terror, not so different from the smell of putrescence which had come out of the ground, seemed to sweat out of the air; Kyra's name began to beat in my head, Ki-Ki, Ki-Ki, Ki-Ki Ki-Ki, Ki-Ki, Ki-Ki, like the call of some exotic tropical bird. I started up the railroad-tie steps to the house, and although I was exhausted, by the time I was halfway up I had begun to run.

I climbed the stairs to the deck and went in that way. The house looked the same - save for the broken tree poking in through the kitchen window, Sara Laughs had stood up to the storm very well - but something was wrong. There was something I could almost smell . . . and perhaps I did did smell it, bitter and low. Lunacy may have its own wild-vetch aroma. It's not the kind of thing I would ever care to research. smell it, bitter and low. Lunacy may have its own wild-vetch aroma. It's not the kind of thing I would ever care to research.

In the front hall I stopped, looking down at a heap of paperback books, Elmore Leonards and Ed Mcbains, lying on the floor. As if they had been raked off the shelf by a pa.s.sing hand. A flailing hand, maybe. I could also see my tracks there, both coming and going. They had already begun to dry. They should have been the only ones; I had been carrying Ki when we came in. They should have been, but they weren't. The others were smaller, but not so small that I mistook them for a child's.

I ran down the hall to the north bedroom crying her name, and I might as well have been crying Mattie Mattie or or Jo Jo or or Sara Sara. Coming out of my mouth, Kyra's name sounded like the name of a corpse. The duvet had been thrown back onto the floor. Except for the black stuffed dog, lying where it had in my dream, the bed was empty. And Ki was gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I reached for Ki with the part of my mind that had for the last few weeks known what she was wearing, what room of the trailer she was in, and what she was doing there. There was nothing, of course - that link was also dissolved.

I called for Jo - I think I did - but Jo was gone, too. I was on my own. G.o.d help me. G.o.d help us both. I could feel panic trying to descend and fought it off. I had to keep my mind clear. If I couldn't think, any chance Ki might still have would be lost. I walked rapidly back down the hall to the foyer, trying not to hear the sick voice in the back of my head, the one saying that Ki was lost already, dead already. I knew no such thing, couldn't know it now that the connection between us was broken.

I looked down at the heap of books, then up at the door. The new tracks had come in this way and gone out this way, too. Lightning stroked the sky and thunder cracked. The wind was rising again. I went to the door, reached for the k.n.o.b, then paused. Something was caught in the crack between the door and the jamb, something as fine and floaty as a strand of spider's silk.

A single white hair.

I looked at it with a sick lack of surprise. I should have known, of course, and if not for the strain I'd been under and the successive shocks of this terrible day, I would would have known. It was all on the tape John had played for me that morning . . . a time that already seemed part of another man's life. have known. It was all on the tape John had played for me that morning . . . a time that already seemed part of another man's life.

For one thing, there was the time-check marking the point where John had hung up on her. Nine-forty Nine-forty A.M., A.M., Eastern Daylight Eastern Daylight, the robot voice had said, which meant that Rogette had been calling at six-forty in the morning . . . if, that was, she'd really been calling from Palm Springs. That was at least possible; had the oddity occurred to me while we were driving from the airport to Mattie's trailer, I would have told myself that there were no doubt insomniacs all over California who finished their East Coast business before the sun had hauled itself fully over the horizon, and good for them. But there was something else that couldn't be explained away so easily.

At one point John had ejected the tape. He did it because, he said, I'd gone as white as a sheet instead of looking amused. I had told him to go on and play the rest; it had just surprised me to hear her again. The quality of her voice. Christ, the reproduction is good. The quality of her voice. Christ, the reproduction is good. Except it was really the boys in the bas.e.m.e.nt who had reacted to John's tape; my subconscious co-conspirators. And it hadn't been her voice that had scared them badly enough to turn my face white. The underhum had done that. The characteristic underhum you always got on TR calls, both those you made and those you received. Except it was really the boys in the bas.e.m.e.nt who had reacted to John's tape; my subconscious co-conspirators. And it hadn't been her voice that had scared them badly enough to turn my face white. The underhum had done that. The characteristic underhum you always got on TR calls, both those you made and those you received.

Rogette Whitmore had never left TR-90 at all. If my failing to realize that this morning cost Ki Devore her life this afternoon, I wouldn't be able to live with myself. I told G.o.d that over and over as I went plunging down the railroad-tie steps again, running into the face of a revitalized storm.

It's a blue-eyed wonder I didn't go flying right off the embankment. Half my swimming float had grounded there, and perhaps I could have impaled myself on its splintered boards and died like a vampire writhing on a stake. What a pleasant thought that that was. was.

Running isn't good for people near panic; it's like scratching poison ivy. By the time I had thrown my arm around one of the pines at the foot of the steps to check my progress, I was on the edge of losing all coherent thought. Ki's name was beating in my head again, so loudly there wasn't room for much else.

Then a stroke of lightning leaped out of the sky to my right and knocked the last three feet of trunk out from beneath a huge old spruce which had probably been here when Sara and Kito were still alive. If I'd been looking directly at it I would have been blinded; even with my head turned three-quarters away, the stroke left a huge blue swatch like the aftermath of a gigantic camera flash floating in front of my eyes. There was a grinding, juddering sound as two hundred feet of blue spruce toppled into the lake, sending up a long curtain of spray, which seemed to hang between the gray sky and gray water. The stump was on fire in the rain, burning like a witch's hat.

It had the effect of a slap, clearing my head and giving me one final chance to use my brain. I took a breath and forced myself to do just that. Why had I come down here in the first place? Why did I think Rogette had brought Kyra toward the lake, where I had just been, instead of carrying her away from me, up the driveway to Lane Forty-two?

Don't be stupid. She came down here because The Street's the way back to Warrington's, and Warrington's is where she's been, all by herself, ever since she sent the boss's body back to California in his private jet. Don't be stupid. She came down here because The Street's the way back to Warrington's, and Warrington's is where she's been, all by herself, ever since she sent the boss's body back to California in his private jet.

She had sneaked into the house while I was under Jo's studio, finding the tin box in the belly of the owl and studying that sc.r.a.p of genealogy. She would have taken Ki then if I'd given her the chance, but I didn't. I came hurrying back, afraid something was wrong, afraid someone might be trying to get hold of the kid - Had Rogette awakened her? Had Ki seen her and tried to warn me before drifting off again? Was that what had brought me in such a hurry? Maybe. I'd still been in the zone then, we'd still been linked then. Rogette had certainly been in the house when I came back. She might even have been in the north-bedroom closet and peering at me through the crack. Part of me had known it, too. Part of me had felt her, felt something that was not-Sara.

Then I'd left again. Grabbed the carry-bag from Slips 'n Greens and come down here. Turned right, turned north. Toward the birch, the rock, the bag of bones. I'd done what I had to do, and while I was doing it, Rogette carried Kyra down the railroad-tie steps behind me and turned left on The Street. Turned south toward Warrington's. With a sinking feeling deep in my belly, I realized I had probably heard Ki . . . might even have seen her. That bird peeking timidly out from cover during the lull had been no bird. Ki was awake by then, Ki had seen me - perhaps had seen Jo, as well - and tried to call out. She had managed just that one little peep before Rogette had covered her mouth.