"Dad?" he called out. "Dad, it's me!"

He glanced toward the closed door of the office at the far end of the trailer, then turned the other way, toward the small kitchen where he and his father usually sat conferring with the site supervisor over c.o.kes, feeling more relaxed around the Formica table than they did around the desk in the office.

"Dad?" Ted called again as he stepped into the kitchen, half expecting to find his father already at the table, poring over drawings, checking specifications against lists of supplies on hand.

The kitchen was empty.

He gazed out the window, over the golf course that was in the first phases of construction.

Nothing.

He turned away from the window, moving back through the trailer toward the closed office door.

Hearing his son's heavy tread, Carl Anderson realized it had been a mistake coming here. He should have simply driven on past the site and kept going until he'd come to a motel.

He could have checked into one of those anonymous tourist courts along the highway, staying out of sight for a few hours until the shot Phillips had given him did its work.

But it was early, and the site had been deserted, and he'd decided to stop for a few minutes to leave some instructions for Ted.

And now Ted was here.

"G-Go away, Ted. I need to be alone right now."

He heard the sound of his voice, rasping, rattling in his throat like that of an old man.

"Dad?" Ted called through the door. "What is it?"

"Nothing! Will you just get the-"

The door opened and he saw Ted step in, then stop short, staring at him.

"Jesus, Dad," Ted whispered. He hardly recognized the old man as his father. Carl's strong features were all but hidden under the slack skin of his face, and his frame had taken on a stooped and shrunken look. Carl's eyes, burning deep in their sockets, were fixed on Ted, and as the younger man gazed at the ancient figure, he had the feeling he was facing the countenance of death.

"I told you not to come in here," Carl rasped.

"Dad, we've got to get you to the hospital-"

"No!" Carl barked, stepping behind the desk.

"Dad, you're sick-"

"I saw Phillips this morning. I'll be all right." The fingers of his right hand curled around the handle of the drawer, and he pulled it open. Glancing down, he saw the familiar shape of the b.u.t.t of the gun he kept there. "Go away, Ted. Just leave me alone."

Ted shook his head. "I can't do that, Dad. Whatever's in those shots, it's not working."

"He's running out," Carl said without thinking.

Ted's eyes bored into him. "So they're not vitamins," he said. "What are they, Dad?"

Carl's jaw tightened. "It's something he makes himself."

"Then he'll make more," Ted said, his voice taking on a note of desperation. "Whatever it is, he can make more, can't he? Dad, what is it? What's wrong wrong with you? If we don't get you to the hospital, you're going to die!" with you? If we don't get you to the hospital, you're going to die!"

He took a step toward his father, but stopped short when Carl's hand suddenly came up from behind the desk, holding a gun.

"I want you to leave, Ted," Carl rasped coldly. "I want you to get out of here and forget about what you've seen. I'll be gone for a few hours, and when I get back I'll be fine."

Ted shook his head in disbelief. "You're dying, Dad," he whispered, "No, G.o.dd.a.m.n it!" Carl roared, his son's words triggering a fury in him that overcame the fear that had all but paralyzed him since he'd left Phillips's house. "I'm not dying! I'm not ever going to die!"

He raised the gun, grasping it with both hands now, pointing it at Ted. Though his hands trembled violently, he was so close to his son that he knew he couldn't miss.

Ted knew it, too. His hands came up slowly and he backed toward the door. "Take it easy, Dad," he said. "If you don't want to go to the hospital, I won't make you."

"Just leave me alone," Carl rasped. "Get out of here."

Ted had reached the doorway. A moment later Carl saw him dart out of the trailer toward his car. But instead of going to the Chrysler, Ted jerked open the door of the truck and pulled the keys from the ignition where Carl habitually left them. Pocketing them, he got into his own car and drove away.

Carl stood where he was, his mind racing.

The men would be arriving soon, and Ted would be coming back, too.

Ted thought he'd gone crazy, and when he came back, he'd bring help.

Shoving the gun into his belt, Carl, too, left the trailer. The shot Phillips had given him was working now; his legs felt much stronger, and the pain in his joints was fading quickly.

He started away from the trailer, walking rapidly, toward the ca.n.a.l.

They wouldn't find him, Carl had decided. Not Ted, nor whomever he brought with him. By the time Ted got back, he would be long gone.

He came to the edge of the ca.n.a.l and clambered down the bank, sliding into the water, his feet coming to rest on the mud bottom.

He started across, pulling the gun from his belt as the water rose to his waist. A few seconds later he was across and scrambling up the other bank.

He would find what Phillips needed, find a child somewhere in the swamp.

If he didn't, he would die.

And Carl Anderson had no intention of dying.

24.

It was a hot morning, and Kelly had momentarily wondered whether to wait until this afternoon, when Michael was done working, to go talk to him. But the image of her grandfather's sepulchral face loomed vividly in her mind. And so, after breakfast, she'd left the house for Phil Stubbs's place. She'd pa.s.sed through the village, and seen Buddy Hawkins and some of his friends cl.u.s.tered on the sidewalk in front of Arlette's cafe. She'd sensed them watching her, even imagined she heard them whispering among themselves, but had ignored them. Resisting the impulse to cross the street, she'd simply walked past, saying nothing.

As she left the village behind and started along the road through the marshlands, with the sun beating down and the humidity closing around her like a suffocating shroud, Kelly found herself wishing she'd stayed within the air-conditioned walls of her grandfather's house. But then she walked through the open gates of the swamp tour's headquarters and paused for a moment, enjoying the relative cool beneath the spreading trees. In the shade of the pines and cypress, she felt better, and looked around, searching for Michael. She spotted him standing by the alligator pit, surrounded by a cl.u.s.ter of tourists. She moved to join the group, watching as Michael tossed a dead chicken into the enclosure.

The 'gators, already alert, closed in on the chicken, one of them s.n.a.t.c.hing it out of the air even before it landed. As its great jaws snapped closed on the bird, crushing it instantly into a shapeless pulp, Kelly remembered the 'gator that had come so close to killing her in the swamp, and felt her skin crawl. As Michael tossed two more chickens to the waiting reptiles, she turned away, toward the nutria cages. A moment later Michael was beside her.

"How come you didn't call me?" he asked. "If I'd known you were coming out here, I'd have picked you up with the bike."

Kelly glanced furtively around before she spoke, and dropped her voice though no one was nearby. "It's my grandfather," she said, her voice quavering. "He-Michael, he's one of them!"

Michael stared at her. "Are you sure?"

Kelly nodded. "I was up all night long. He-He kept calling Dr. Phillips, and then he left real early this morning-" She stopped to steady herself, then continued. "I saw him, Michael. He's old. I mean, really old-like he was about to die." She shuddered, but went on. "He-He looked like the man we see in the mirror," she finished.

"Did he know you saw him?" Michael asked.

Kelly shook her head. "And I didn't tell Mom and Dad, either." She looked at Michael uncertainly. "What are we going to do?"

Before Michael could reply, Phil Stubbs stepped out of his office, his voice booming through the clearing. "Michael?" he called out. Spotting Michael and Kelly, he walked quickly over to them. "Bobby Carter just called in sick. You're going to take a tour out."

Michael's mouth dropped open. "Me? But I've never done it before."

Stubbs shrugged. "You know the swamp. All you have to do is take 'em out for a couple of hours, and tell 'em what's there." Then he smiled broadly. "And why don't you take your girlfriend along, too? But keep your mind on what you're doing," he added. "I don't need you losing track of time again, and taking these folks out in the middle of nowhere all day long. Two hours, no more! Got that?"

Michael nodded, then, with Kelly beside him, he headed down to the dock where the tour boats were moored. Two of them had already departed, but one more was still tied up, a long, narrow boat with two long benches, back to back, running down its center. Across the stern was another bench, and at the front of the boat was the helmsman's seat and the public address system. Michael surveyed the group that stood at the head of the dock, waiting for him. There were about fifteen women, in their twenties and early thirties, with a flock of children ranging from babies in carriers to ten-year-olds.

"Jeez," he whispered to Kelly as they approached the women. "This is gonna be awful." He could already imagine the barrage of questions that would come from the kids, and tried to figure out how he was going to keep any of them from falling overboard.

After he'd guided them into the boat and gotten them seated, he turned on the P.A. system and picked up the microphone. A high-pitched scream rose from the speakers and he quickly turned down the volume, then experimentally tapped the mike. Satisfied, he began to speak.

"Welcome to Phil Stubbs's world-famous swamp tour," he began. "I'm Michael Sheffield, and I'll be your guide this morning. Now, one thing I want you to remember is that the swamp is a dangerous place. We have alligators and crocodiles, and all kinds of other things, so it's important that you keep your hands inside the boat at all times." He fixed one of the older boys with what he hoped was a severe look. "And don't lean out, either," he said. "Those 'gators'll come right up out of the water and pull you overboard!" The boy's eyes widened in awe, and Michael saw several others immediately back away from the gunwales of the boat to sit back down on the bench. Winking surrept.i.tiously at Kelly, he moved back to the stem, cast off the mooring line, then returned to the prow and cast off the bow line as well. Putting the transmission in gear, he opened the throttle a little, and the boat slipped away from the dock, moving out into the channel.

For the next hour Michael cruised slowly through the swamp, telling the tourists how it had been formed and how its ecosystem worked, describing the various trees and slowing the boat to a stop whenever he spotted something interesting.

As he'd expected, the children asked endless questions, but none of them came up with anything he couldn't answer, and soon he found himself relaxing, enjoying the tour almost as much as his customers were. He began veering away from the area the boats usually operated in, taking his group into the depths of the swamp, showing them places he'd discovered long ago, that most people rarely saw.

Coming around the end of one of the islands, they emerged from the gloom of overhanging trees into a marshy gra.s.sland, and Michael searched the area with his eyes, looking for a movement in the gra.s.ses that would betray the presence of a wild boar. At last he spotted what he was looking for, then began maneuvering the long boat through the narrow channels, his eyes constantly tracking the invisible pig as it pushed its way through the wetland. Finally he cut the engines and whispered into the microphone for everyone to remain silent.

The voices of the children died away. For nearly five minutes the group sat in the quiet of the wilderness, the only sounds drifting through the morning air the twittering of the thousands of birds that nested among the gra.s.ses and reeds.

At last there was a faint snuffling sound, and Michael pointed ahead. The gra.s.ses parted and an immense sow emerged from the foliage, her snout pressed to the ground as she rooted for food.

Behind her, imitating her movements, were six tiny piglets.

"Wow," yelled one of the boys. "Look at that! Wild pigs!"

Instantly the sow's ears p.r.i.c.ked, her head came up, and she faced the boat. A second later she was gone, her offspring disappearing even faster than she did. "Nice going, Terry," another of the boys groaned. "Can't you ever shut up?"

As the boys began to squabble, Michael restarted the engine and headed back toward tour headquarters. If he didn't make any more side trips, he should make it right on time. Glancing back at his charges, he found himself grinning as the mothers tried to mediate the argument between the two kids. "What do you think?" he asked Kelly, switching off the mike for a moment. "How am I doing?"

"This is neat," Kelly told him. "You're really good at it."

Then he heard a voice from the rear of the boat: "Is it true that people actually live in the swamp?"

The question came from a woman in the stern, who was holding a small boy, no more than three years old, on her lap, and had another one, even younger, lying in a carrier that sat on the seat next to her. Michael nodded and began telling them about the swamp rats and how they lived. One of the older boys waved his hand and began speaking even before Michael had acknowledged him.

"What about the zombies?" the boy asked.

Michael frowned uncertainly. "Zombies?" he asked. "I'm not sure what you mean."

The little boy gazed steadily at him. "My cousin says there's zombies in this swamp. Dead people. Except they're not really dead." As some of the little girls squealed nervously, the boy warmed to his own words. "My cousin says there's kids out here. Dead kids that go around lookin' for people to kill. He says they're like vampires, an' if they get you, they suck the blood right out of you!"

"Bobby!" the boy's mother said. "What a terrible story. I can't believe Jody told you anything like that!"

"Well, he did," Bobby insisted, his eyes fixed on Michael. "Is it true?"

Michael felt Kelly's eyes on him. He glanced over at her and saw that her face was pale. For the first time that morning he had no idea what to say. When he tried to speak, his mouth had gone dry.

Say something, he told himself. Say anything. Tell them it's just a story.

But it wasn't a story, not really. It wasn't quite the way Bobby was putting it, but- And then, as the boat drifted slowly through the narrow channel, barely wide enough here to let it pa.s.s, one of the women let out a startled gasp.

A moment later there was another gasp, and then some of the children started screaming and pointing forward.

Michael turned.

Standing on the sh.o.r.e only a few yards away, a man was watching the boat.

An old man.

A man whose eyes, sunk deep into their sockets, were barely visible, but from which an evil glow seemed to emanate.

Kelly, who had turned at the same time as Michael, grasped his arm. He could see recognition on her ashen face. Yet he hadn't needed to look at Kelly to know who the man was, for he, too, had recognized him the instant he'd seen him.

The awful sunken greedy eyes.

Evil eyes, eyes he'd seen before.

Eyes he'd seen in the face in the mirror.

The boat was pa.s.sing the vile figure now, and Michael remained frozen, unable either to speak or to move in the face of the nightmare image that had suddenly become reality.

In the boat the women and children closest to Carl Anderson shrank away from him, as if they, too, felt the horror that was overcoming Michael.

And then, as the boat was about to move away from him, Carl reached out, his gnarled fingers curling like? the talons of a carnivorous bird, and s.n.a.t.c.hed up the baby that lay in its carrier on the stern seat.

It happened so quickly that for a moment Michael wasn't sure it had happened at all.

The old man was gone, disappearing into the dense junglelike foliage as if it had swallowed him up. For one happy second Michael thought that perhaps the vile apparition hadn't existed at all, that once more it was only his mind playing tricks on him.