He walked around it. It sure as h.e.l.l looked big enough to inflict heavy damage on any car, even a Grand Marquis. He wondered what the left end of the front b.u.mper looked like.

Jack stopped and stared at the dent in the fender...and the streaks of silver paint ground into its black surface.

"Can I help you with something?" said a voice behind him.

Jack turned to find a prototypical truck driver-big cowboy hat, big gut, big belt buckle, big boots-walking his way with a bag of burgers in one hand and a travel mug of coffee in the other.

"Yeah," Jack said. "Just admiring the ding in your fender here." A euphemism; the "ding" was a deep dent. "Looks pretty fresh."

"It is. Best I can figure it must've happened Monday night when the truck was stolen."

"Stolen? No kidding? By who?"

The driver unlocked the door to the cab, put the burgers and coffee inside, then shrugged.

"d.a.m.ned if I know." He rubbed his weather-beaten face. "Never happened to me before. After she got the first part of her load Monday evening, I locked her up and hit the hay. I got up the next morning and she was gone. Couple hours after I reported her missing the cops found her in a liquor store parking lot. I was so glad to get her back-I mean, you don't know what kind of s.h.i.t was gonna come down on me if she was gone for good-that I didn't notice the ding till later."

"You report it to the cops?"

"No. Why?"

"Because your rig might have been involved in a hit and run."

His eyes narrowed. "You a cop or something?"

"Nope. Just an interested party." He saw the questioning look on the trucker's face. "My dad's car took a wallop early Tuesday morning."

"He okay?"

"Luckily, yeah."

"Good." He hauled himself into the cab. "Because I can't hang around for no investigation. I ain't running or nothing, but I got a schedule to keep."

"I hear you," Jack said.

He thought about stopping him but decided against it. If his story was true-and Jack sensed it was-what good would it do? If he hadn't reported his truck stolen, Jack could call Hernandez and the Novaton cops would pick him up.

Of course, the reported theft could have been a cover, but Jack doubted that.

As the cab door slammed shut, Jack said, "What're you hauling?"

"Sand."

"Where to?"

"North Jersey."

Jersey? Jersey was loaded with sand.

"What the h.e.l.l for?"

The driver shrugged. "I don't set up the jobs or choose the loads; I just get it where it wants to go."

Then Jack remembered Luke saying something about Semelee sucking all the sand out of the cenote and selling it. Could this be...?

"Where'd you get the sand?"

Another shrug. "It got boated in from somewheres in the swamp. That's all I know."

With that he threw the truck into first and headed for the exit.

Jack watched him go. He made a mental note of the company name. Wm. Blagden & Sons. He might look them up when he got back north, maybe find out who'd hired them. Shipping sand from a Florida nexus point to New Jersey...he couldn't imagine the reason, but it couldn't be good.

He started back toward his car. At least now he knew what had hit his father's Marquis. And he had a pretty good idea who had been driving it.

But he still didn't know why. Had a pretty good idea about that too, and hoped to nail that down this afternoon.

8.

By the time Jack reached Gateways South he'd stopped at a local hardware store for a roll of duct tape, then called the Novaton Police where he reached Anita Nesbitt. After a quick check she told him that, yes, on Tuesday morning a dump truck had been reported stolen during the night and was found shortly thereafter.

Okay. So Wm. Blagden & Sons, Inc., was covered.

Jack parked in the cul-de-sac and hurried into his father's place.

His father was watching TV. Cla.s.sic ESPN was running the 1980 Wimbledon slugfest between Borg and McEnroe. McEnroe was screaming at himself for missing a bullet pa.s.sing shot.

He looked up at Jack and grinned. "Right about now I bet McEnroe wishes Borg had never been Bjorn."

Normally Jack would have groaned, but a bad pun was a good sign. His father loved puns. He was getting back to normal.

He looked down at Jack's muddy sneakers and still-wet jeans. "What happened to you?"

"Took a little boat trip."

"You went boating? Why didn't you tell me? I would have-"

"It wasn't exactly a pleasure trip. Look, Dad, do you remember seeing a little black sh.e.l.l in your hospital room?"

He frowned. "No. When would this have been?"

"I found it the day before you woke up. It was black, oblong, had a little hole drilled in the hinge."

Please remember. Please... Please...

Dad was shaking his head. "Sorry. Never saw anything like that."

Jack suppressed a groan. He'd have to try the hospital next.

Hospital...Jack remembered the plastic bag of sundries that Anya had thrown together as his father was signing himself out. He knew it wasn't in his car. Had he brought it in?

"Did you see a bag of goodies from the hospital? You know, toothpaste, mouthwash-"

"Oh, that. I threw it out."

"You didn't see a sh.e.l.l in there?"

"I didn't really look. I mean, I glanced inside but I don't use any of those brands so I tossed it out."

Maybe...maybe...Jack didn't want to get his hopes up.

"Where? In the kitchen?"

"Well, yes, at first. But this morning I tossed the kitchen bag into the can out back. Look, what's so important-?"

Jack didn't wait for him to finish. He dashed outside and around to the back porch. The green plastic garbage can sat to the left on a small concrete slab. Just his luck, Friday would be garbage pickup day and the sh.e.l.l-if it was in there-was on its way to the county dump.

But no. The can was empty except for one white plastic bag. Jack untied the top and poked around until he found the bag from the hospital. He yanked it out and pawed through the sample-size toiletries. He sent out a silent prayer to the patron saint of garbage that he'd find the sh.e.l.l within, but it wasn't looking good...

And then he reached the bottom and felt something hard and rough edged. He pulled it out- "Yes!"

He had it. Now Carl could come home. But first Jack had to arrange an exchange. He shook his head. A sh.e.l.l for a human being...what kind of a deal was that?

What had Semelee told him to do? Stand outside his father's house and announce that he'd found it. Riiiight. But she'd said she'd hear him, and she probably could. Jack's Doubting Thomas days were over. Anything goes.

"Okay," he said aloud, feeling foolish but forcing himself to go on. "I've found the sh.e.l.l. Did you catch that? I've found it. Tell me how we make the trade."

Now what? He supposed he'd have to wait until Semelee got in touch with him.

Pocketing the sh.e.l.l, he turned and found Dad staring at him through the back porch jalousies. He wore the same perplexed expression as when Jack had unpacked those stuffed animals from Abe. Maybe more perplexed this time.

Probably thinks I'm doing drugs.

"Hi, Dad."

"Are you okay, Jack?"

No, he thought. I'm not. Someday I'd like to be, but at the moment...

"I'm fine."

His father pushed open the porch door. "Come back in this way. It's shorter."

Jack took a step toward the porch, then remembered again that it was Anya who'd packed up the bag. Had she known...?

He glanced toward her place and noticed a figure stretched out on a lounge in the front yard.

"Be with you in a minute," he said. "I want to say h.e.l.lo to Anya."

As Jack crossed onto the green gra.s.s, Oyv trotted up to meet him, wagging his tail in welcome. The dog escorted him toward Anya, but Jack slowed, letting Oyv pull ahead as he noticed that Anya was topless.

She lay face down on a towel on the lounge cushion, dressed only in lime-colored Bermuda shorts, baking her bare back in the afternoon sun. He was about to turn away when he noticed a pattern of red marks on her exposed skin. He took a step closer and...

Jack bit his upper lip. They looked like burn marks...and crisscrossing her skin between them were thin, angry red lines, as if someone had been stubbing out cigarettes on her back and then whipping her with a fine lash.

Jack wanted to turn away, but couldn't. He had to stay and stare, horrified, yet fascinated.

Anya's voice startled him.

"A map of my pain," she said without looking up. "See what he does to me?"

"Who?"

"You know. The Adversary. The One."

Oh, yeah. The One...whose True Name Jack wasn't supposed to know.

"But how? Why?"

"I've told you the why: Because I hinder his path. As to the how...he has many ways, and they are all written here, on my back."

"But how do those burns, those cuts get there?"

"They simply appear. They map his efforts to destroy me."

Jack shook his head to clear it. "I'm not following. What What is he doing to destroy you?" is he doing to destroy you?"

"Help me with this towel," she said. "Fold the ends over my back."

Jack did as she asked, allowing her to wrap the towel around her upper torso as she rose to a sitting position.

"Talk to me," Jack said.

Anya shook her gray head. "You have your own concerns. Those you should be worrying about. And besides, what can you do to help? Nothing. This I must face on my own."

"Try me."

He liked this old lady. He wanted to help her, do something to lighten her load.

"It's all right, Jack. The sun makes it feel better. The rays don't heal me, but they lessen the pain." She rose to her feet. "I'm going in to lie down."