But Semelee didn't care now. She'd thought her world had ended but now she knew it was just beginnin'. She knew she was special. She could do somethin' no one else could do. They could make fun of her, call her names, but no one could hurt her now.

She was special.

But now she'd lost one of her sh.e.l.ls. She'd lose all her specialness without them. She'd be a n.o.body again.

Semelee gripped the edges of the canoe in white-knuckled panic. "I just had a terrible thought, Luke. What if I dropped it back in that hospital room?"

6.

When Jack returned to his father's room, almost an hour after he'd left, he was in a foul mood. He could have called the rental agency to come and change the tire, but had canned that course of action. He'd had no idea where he was, so how could he tell them where to find him?

So he'd changed the tire himself. No biggee. He'd changed a lot of tires in his day, but usually on pavement. Today the jack had kept slipping in the sand, fraying his patience. Then the clouds wandered off to let the sun out so it could cook him. But all that wouldn't have been so bad if the mosquitoes hadn't declared his skin a picnic ground. Never in all his life had he seen so many mosquitoes. Now his forearms looked like pink bubble wrap and the itching was driving him nuts.

Felt like a jerk for letting those yokels sandbag him like that.

The TV was on and some news head was talking about Tropical Storm Elvis. It had lost a lot of steam crossing northern Florida but was now in the Gulf where it was gaining strength again, stoking itself over the warm waters. Elvis had not entirely left the building.

He went to the bed and checked his father. No change that he could see. He stepped to the window and looked out again at the parking lot. Who were they, the girl and those odd-looking people? From the way the girl had approached the bed-or at least started to-she'd come here with a purpose. But what?

As he turned back to the bed he spotted something on the floor, something glossy black and oblong. He squatted beside it, wondering if it was some sort of Florida bug, a roach maybe. But no, it looked like a sh.e.l.l. He bent closer. It was curved like a mussel but flatter. Some kind of clam, maybe.

As he reached to pick it up, something under the bed caught his eye. Not under the bed exactly-more like behind the headboard. Looked like a slim tree branch standing on its end.

Jack picked up the sh.e.l.l and stepped to the head of the bed. He peeked behind the headboard and found a tin can painted with odd little squiggles sitting atop the branch. He'd seen something like this before, then remembered Anya's yard-it was full of them.

He smiled. The old lady must think they're good luck or something. Probably put it here for him when she visited the other day. Might as well leave it. Sure as h.e.l.l wasn't doing Dad any harm. And who knew? Maybe it would help him. Jack had seen a lot stranger things these past few months.

As he straightened he noticed a glistening design on the back of the headboard. He slid the bed a few inches away from the wall for a better look. Someone had painted a pattern of black squiggles and circles there. No question as to who, because they were very similar to the squiggles on the can. But how had that skinny old lady moved the bed? It was d.a.m.n heavy.

Jack decided to ask her later. He pushed the bed back, then placed the sh.e.l.l on the nightstand. Maybe one of the staff had dropped it. If so, they could reclaim it here. At least this way no one would step on it.

Scratching his arms, Jack said goodbye to his father and headed back to the car. He hoped his father had some calamine lotion at home.

7.

Back at Gateways Jack found another car parked in the cul-de-sac. Maybe Anya had company. But when he went around to the front of his father's place he found the front door open and heard voices inside.

He stepped into the front room and found a young woman in a jacket and skirt showing an elderly couple through the house.

"Who the h.e.l.l are you?" Jack said.

The old folks jumped and the young woman clutched her looseleaf notebook defensively against her chest. Jack figured he might have had a little too much edge on his voice, but that was the kind of mood he was in.

"I-I'm with Gateways," the woman said. "I'm showing this couple the house." She squared her shoulders defiantly. "And just who are you?"

"The owner's son. What are you doing here?"

The woman blinked. "Oh. I'm so sorry for your loss, but-"

"Loss? What loss? You talk as if my father's dead."

Another blink-a double this time. "You mean he's not?"

"d.a.m.n right, he's not. I just came from the hospital. He's not too healthy at the moment, but he's not dead."

The old couple were looking uncomfortable now. They stared at the ceiling, at the rug, anywhere but at Jack.

"Oh, dear," the younger woman said. "I was told he was."

"Even if he was, so what? What are you doing here?"

"I was showing it to these-"

Fury hit him like a kick in the gut. Vultures!

"Showing it? Where do you get off showing this place to anyone? It's his until he sells it."

Another squaring of the shoulders, this time with a defiant lift of the chin. "Apparently you don't know the arrangement in Gateway communities."

"Apparently I don't. But I'm going to find out. As for now"-he jerked a thumb over his shoulder-"out."

"But-"

"Out!"

She strode out the door with her head high. The old couple shuffled out behind her.

"I'm sorry," the old woman said, pausing as she pa.s.sed.

"Not your fault," Jack told her.

She put a wrinkled hand on his arm. "I hope your father gets well soon."

"Thank you," he said, feeling suddenly deflated.

He closed the door after them and leaned against it. He'd overreacted. He told himself it was the frustration of all these questions with no answers. Not one G.o.dd.a.m.n answer.

Bad day. And it was only noon.

He was just turning away from the door when he heard a knock. He counted to three, promised he'd be more genteel this time about telling the sales lady where she could stick her commission, and pulled open the door.

But Anya stood there instead. She held out a familiar taped-over FedEx box.

"This came while you were out," she said. "I signed for it."

Ah. His Glock and his backup. Now he could feel whole again.

"Thanks."

"Heavy," she said. "What've you got in there? Lead?"

"You might say. Come on in where it's cool."

"I can't stay. You were by the hospital already?"

Jack nodded. "No change." He debated whether or not to ask her about the can on the stick behind his father's headboard but decided to save it for later. "Are you going over?"

She nodded. "I thought I'd sit with him for a while."

What a grand old lady. "I'll give you a lift."

She waved him off. "I've already called a cab." She turned to go. "I'll be back later. c.o.c.ktails at five, if you're available."

He couldn't turn her down twice. "It's a date." Jack thought of something. "By the way, who's the head honcho around here?"

"You mean Gateways?"

"Yeah. The general manager or acting director or chairman of the board of whatever you call him. Who runs the show?"

"That would be Ramsey Weldon. You can find him at the administration building. You can't miss it. It's mostly gla.s.s and right on the golf course. Why?"

"We need to have a little tete-a-tete," Jack said.

8.

The administration building was pretty much as Anya had described it: a small, cubical structure sheathed in mirrored gla.s.s. As Jack got out of his car he saw a tall, distinguished-looking man unlocking the door to a cla.s.sic-looking four-door sedan. He looked fiftyish, had longish black hair, graying at the temples, and wore a milk-chocolate brown lightweight silk suit that perfectly matched the color of his beautifully restored car: two-tone-white over brown-with wide whitewall tires.

"Am I dreaming," Jack said, "or is that a 1956 Chrysler Crown Imperial?"

The man's smile was tolerant, and his tone carried a hint of impatience.

"It's a Crown Imperial, all right, but not a Chrysler. Everyone makes that mistake. Chrysler spun off the Imperial into its own division in 1954. This baby came out two years later."

"It's beautiful," Jack said, meaning it.

He ran a hand along the crest of the rear fender to one of the stand-alone taillights, sticking up like a miniature red searchlight. The chrome of the split grille gleamed like a gap-toothed grin; the flawless finish threw back his reflection.

G.o.d, he wished he could use something like this for his wheels. But it was too conspicuous. The last thing he wanted was people to notice him as he drove around. That was why he'd finally given up Ralph, his old '63 Corvair convertible. People kept stopping him and asking about it.

"You restore this yourself?"

"Yes, it's a hobby of mine. Took me two years. Fewer than eleven thousand Imperials were made in '56 and only a hundred and seventy were Crowns. This one has the original engine, by the way-a 354-cubic-inch Hemi V-8."

"So it cranks."

"Yes, indeed. It cranks." He looked at Jack. "Visiting, I a.s.sume?"

"Yeah, in a way. My father's in the hospital in a coma and-"

"You're Tom's son? Poor man. How is he?"

Jack was surprised at the instant recognition. "Not great. You know him?"

He stuck out his hand. "Ramsey Weldon. I'm director of Gateways South."

"Isn't that something," Jack said, shaking his hand. "I came here looking for you."

"I bet I know why, too. I got a call from one of our sales team. It seems she was given false information about your father. The initial word from the hospital was that he was DOA. I'm terribly sorry about the misunderstanding."

"Okay," Jack said. "I can see somebody getting the wrong information, but where did she get off showing the place to prospective buyers?"

"Because she thought-erroneously-that the place belonged to Gateways."

"Where would she get an idea like that?"

Weldon's eyebrows rose. "Upon the death of the owner-or owners-the house reverts to Gateways."

"You're kidding."

He shook his head. "That's the arrangement. It's not unique. Plenty of graduated-care senior communities have similar arrangements."

"I can't believe my father signed on for that."

"Why not? His purchase of the home and the bond guarantees him not only a place to live, but quality care from the moment he signs to the moment he goes to meet his maker, no matter how long it takes. Members of a Gateways community will never be a burden on their families. 'What do we do with Papa?' or 'Who's going to take care of Mom?' are questions that will never arise in their families."