"Didn't you have it locked, too?"

"I thought I did."

"And wasn't your lunchbox shut tight?"

"It should should have been," he said, scratching his head, trying to remember. have been," he said, scratching his head, trying to remember.

Faye said, "Well, obviously, it wasn't. Rats can't open a lock, open a door, and pry the lid off a lunchbox. You must have been very careless, Davey. I'm surprised at you. I'll bet you ate one of those oatmeal cookies first thing when you got to school, just couldn't wait, and then forgot to put the lid back on the box."

"But I didn't," Davey protested.

"Your father's not teaching you to pick up after yourself," Faye said. "That's the kind of thing a mother teaches, and your father's just neglecting it."

Penny was going to tell them about how her own locker had been trashed when she'd gone to school this morning. She was even going to tell them about the things in the bas.e.m.e.nt because it seemed to her that what had happened to Davey's lunch would somehow substantiate her story.

But before Penny could speak, Aunt Faye spoke up in her most morally indignant tone of voice: "What I I want to know is what kind of school this is your father's sent to you. What kind of dirty hole is this place, this Wellton?" want to know is what kind of school this is your father's sent to you. What kind of dirty hole is this place, this Wellton?"

"It's a good school," Penny said defensively.

"With rats? rats?" Faye said. "No good school would have rats. No halfway decent school would have rats. Why, what if they'd still been in the locker when Davey went for his lunch? He might've been bitten. Rats are filthy. They carry all kinds of diseases. They're disgusting. I simply can't imagine any school for young children being allowed to remain open if it has rats. The Board of Health has got to be told about this first thing tomorrow. Your father's going to have to do something about the situation immediately. I won't allow him to procrastinate. Not where your health is concerned. Why, your poor dear mother would be appalled by such a place, a school with rats in the wall. Rats! My G.o.d, rats carry everything from rabies to the plague!"

Faye droned on and on.

Penny tuned her out.

There wasn't any point in telling them about her own locker and the silver-eyed things in the school bas.e.m.e.nt. Faye would insist they had been rats, too. When that woman got something in her head, there was no way of getting it out again, no way of changing her mind. Now, Faye was looking forward to confronting their father about the rats; she relished the thought of blaming him for putting them in a rat-infested school, and she wouldn't be the least receptive to anything Penny said, to any explanation or any conflicting facts that might put rats completely out of the picture and thereby spare their father from a scolding.

Even if I tell her about the hand, Penny thought, the little hand that came under the green gate, she'll stick to the idea that it's rats. She'll say I was scared and made a mistake about what I saw. She'll say it wasn't really a hand at all, but a rat, a slimy old rat biting at my boot. She'll turn it all around. She'll make it support the story she wants to believe, and it'll just be more ammunition for her to use against Daddy. d.a.m.nit, Aunt Faye, why're you so stubborn?

Faye was chattering about the need for a parent to thoroughly investigate a school before sending children to it.

Penny wondered when her father would come to get them, and she prayed he wouldn't be too late. She wanted him to come before bedtime. She didn't want to be alone, just her and Davey, in a dark room, even if it was Aunt Faye's guest room, blocks and blocks away from their own apartment. She was pretty sure the goblins would find them, even here. She had decided to take her father aside and tell him everything. He wouldn't want to believe in goblins, at first. But now there was Davey's lunchbox to consider. And if she went back to their apartment with her father and showed him the holes in Davey's plastic baseball bat, she might be able to convince him. Daddy was a grownup, like Aunt Faye, sure, but he wasn't stubborn, and he listened listened to kids in a way that few grown-ups did. to kids in a way that few grown-ups did.

Faye said, "With all the money he got from your mother's insurance and from the settlement the hospital made, he could afford to send you to a top-of-the-line school. Absolutely top-of-the-line. I can't imagine why he settled on this Wellton joint."

Penny bit her lip, said nothing.

She stared down at the magazine. The pictures and words swam in and out of focus.

The worst thing was that now she knew, beyond a doubt, that the goblins weren't just after her. They wanted Davey, too.

III.

Rebecca had not waited for Jack, though he had asked her to. While he'd been with Captain Gresham, working out the details of the protection that would be provided for Penny and Davey, Rebecca had apparently put on her coat and gone home.

When Jack found that she had gone, he sighed and said softly, "You sure aren't easy, baby."

On his desk were two books about voodoo, which he had checked out of the library yesterday. He stared at them for a long moment, then decided he needed to learn more about Bocors Bocors and and Houngons Houngons before tomorrow morning. He put on his coat and gloves, picked up the books, tucked them under one arm, and went down to the subterranean garage, beneath the building. before tomorrow morning. He put on his coat and gloves, picked up the books, tucked them under one arm, and went down to the subterranean garage, beneath the building.

Because he and Rebecca were now in charge of the emergency task force, they were ent.i.tled to perquisites beyond the reach of ordinary homicide detectives, including the full-time use of an unmarked police sedan for each of them, not just during duty hours but around the clock. The car a.s.signed to Jack was a one-year-old, sour-green Chevrolet that bore a few dents and more than a few scratches. It was the totally stripped-down model, without options or luxuries of any kind, just a get-around car, not a racer-and-chaser. The motor pool mechanics had even put the snow chains on the tires. The heap was ready to roll.

He backed out of the parking s.p.a.ce, drove up the ramp to the street exit. He stopped and waited while a city truck, equipped with a big snowplow and a salt spreader and lots of flashing lights, pa.s.sed by in the storm-thrashed darkness.

In addition to the truck, there were only two other vehicles on the street. The storm virtually had the night to itself. Yet, when the truck was gone and the way was clear, Jack still hesitated.

He switched on the windshield wipers.

To head toward Rebecca's apartment, he would have to turn left.

To go to the Jamisons' place, he ought to turn right.

The wipers flogged back and forth, back and forth, left, right, left, right.

He was eager to be with Penny and Davey, eager to hug them, to see them warm and alive and smiling.

Right, left, right.

Of course, they weren't in any real danger at the moment. Even if Lavelle was serious when he threatened them, he wouldn't make his move this soon, and he wouldn't know where to find them even if he did did want to make his move. want to make his move.

Left, right, left.

They were perfectly safe with Faye and Keith. Besides, Jack had told Faye that he probably wouldn't make it for dinner; she was already expecting him to be late.

The wipers beat time to his indecision.

Finally he took his foot off the brake, pulled into the street, and turned left.

He needed to talk to Rebecca about what had happened between them last night. She had avoided the subject all day. He couldn't allow her to continue to dodge it. She would have to face up to the changes that last night had wrought in both their lives, major changes which he welcomed wholeheartedly but about which she seemed, at best, ambivalent.

Along the edges of the car roof, wind whistled hollowly through the metal heading, a cold and mournful sound.

Crouching in deep shadows by the garage exit, the thing watched Jack Dawson drive away in the unmarked sedan.

Its shining silver eyes did not blink even once.

Then, keeping to the shadows, it crept back into the deserted, silent garage.

It hissed. It muttered. It gobbled softly to itself in an eerie, raspy little voice.

Finding the protection of darkness and shadows wherever it wished to go-even where there didn't seem to have been shadows only a moment before-the thing slunk from car to car, beneath and around them, until it came to a drain in the garage floor. It descended into the midnight regions below.

IV.

Lavelle was nervous.

Without switching on any lamps, he stalked restlessly through his house, upstairs and down, back and forth, looking for nothing, simply unable to keep still, always moving in deep darkness but never b.u.mping into furniture or doorways, pacing as swiftly and surely as if the rooms were all brightly lighted. He wasn't blind in darkness, never the least disoriented. Indeed, he was at home in shadows. Darkness, after all, was a part of him.

Usually, in either darkness or light, he was supremely confident and self-a.s.sured. But now, hour by hour, his self-a.s.surance was steadily crumbling.

His nervousness had bred uneasiness. Uneasiness had given birth to fear. He was unaccustomed to fear. He didn't know quite how to handle it. So the fear made him even more nervous.

He was worried about Jack Dawson. Perhaps it had been a grave mistake to allow Dawson time to consider his options. A man like the detective might put that time to good use.

If he senses that I'm even slightly afraid of him, Lavelle thought, and if he learns more about voodoo, then he might eventually understand why I've got good reason to fear him.

If Dawson discovered the nature of his own special power, and if he learned to use that power, he would find and stop Lavelle. Dawson was one of those rare individuals, that one in ten thousand, who could do battle with even the most masterful Bocor Bocor and be reasonably certain of victory. If the detective uncovered the secret of himself, then he would come for Lavelle, well-armored and dangerous. and be reasonably certain of victory. If the detective uncovered the secret of himself, then he would come for Lavelle, well-armored and dangerous.

Lavelle paced through the dark house.

Maybe he should strike now. Destroy the Dawson children this evening. Get it over with. Their deaths might send Dawson spiraling down into an emotional collapse. He loved his kids a great deal, and he was already a widower, already laboring under a heavy burden of grief; perhaps the slaughter of Penny and Davey would break him. If the loss of his kids didn't snap his mind, then it would most likely plunge him into a terrible depression that would cloud his thinking and interfere with his work for many weeks. At the very least, Dawson would have to take a few days off from the investigation, in order to arrange the funerals, and those few days would give Lavelle some breathing s.p.a.ce.

On the other hand, what if Dawson was the kind of man who drew strength from adversity instead of buckling under the weight of it? What if the murder and mutilation of his children only solidified his determination to find and destroy Lavelle?

To Lavelle, that was an unnerving possibility.

Indecisive, the Bocor Bocor rambled through the lightless rooms as if he were a ghost come to haunt. rambled through the lightless rooms as if he were a ghost come to haunt.

At last, he knew he must consult the ancient G.o.ds and humbly request the benefit of their wisdom.

He went to the kitchen and flicked on the overhead light.

From a cupboard, he withdrew a cannister filled with flour.

A radio stood on the counter. He moved it to the center of the kitchen table.

Using the flour? he drew an elaborate vv vv on the table, all the way around the radio. on the table, all the way around the radio.

He switched on the radio.

An old Beatles song. Eleanor Rigby Eleanor Rigby.

He turned the dial through a dozen stations that were playing every kind of music from pop to rock to country, cla.s.sical, and jazz. He set the tuner at an unused frequency, where there was no spill- over whatsoever from the stations on either side.

The soft crackle and hiss of the open airwaves filled the room and sounded like the sighing surf-roar of a far-off sea.

He scooped up one more handful of flour and carefully drew a small, simple vv vv on top of the radio itself. on top of the radio itself.

At the sink he washed his hands, then went to the refrigerator and got a small bottle full of blood.

It was cat's blood, used in a variety of rituals. Once a week, always at a different pet store or animal pound, he bought or "adopted" a cat, brought it home, killed it, and drained it to maintain a fresh supply of blood.

He returned to the table now, sat down in front of the radio. Dipping his fingers in the cat's blood, he drew certain runes on the table and, last of all, on the plastic window over the radio dial.

He chanted for a while, waited, listened, chanted some more, until he heard an unmistakable yet indefinable change in the sound of the unused frequency. It had been dead just a moment ago. Dead air. Dead, random, meaningless sound. Now it was alive. It was still just the crackle-sputter-hiss of static, a silk-soft sound. But somehow different from what it had been a few seconds ago. Something Something was making use of the open frequency, reaching out from the Beyond. was making use of the open frequency, reaching out from the Beyond.

Staring at the radio but not really seeing it, Lavelle said, "Is someone there?"

No answer.

"Is someone there?"

It was a voice of dust and mummified remains: "I wait." It was a voice of dry paper, of sand and splinters, a voice of infinite age, as bitterly cold as the night between the stars, jagged and whispery and evil.

It might be any one of a hundred thousand demons, or a full- fledged G.o.d of one of the ancient African religions, or the spirit of a dead man long ago condemned to h.e.l.l. There was no way of telling for sure which it was, and Lavelle wasn't empowered to make it speak its name. Whatever it might be, it would be able to answer his questions.

"I wait."

"You know of my business here?"

"Yessss."

"The business involving the Carramazza family."

"Yessss."

If G.o.d had given snakes the power of speech, this was what they would have sounded like.

"You know the detective, this man Dawson?"

"Yessss."

"Will he ask his superiors to remove him from the case?"

"Never."

"Will he continue to do research into voodoo?"

"Yessss."

"I've warned him to stop."

"He will not."

The kitchen had grown extremely cold in spite of the house's furnace, which was still operating and still spewing hot air out of the wall vents. The air seemed thick and oily, too.

"What can I do to keep Dawson at bay?"

"You know."

"Tell me."

"You know."

Lavelle licked his lips, cleared his throat.

"You know."

Lavelle said, "Should I have his children murdered now, tonight, without further delay?"