Ernie obeyed without pause, a slave to her summons: He crawled to her on hands and knees: every woman's perfect man. Patricia remained standing, the dream enforcing her need to be higher than him, to reduce him to subservience. She gave her plumpened b.r.e.a.s.t.s a shameless caress through the top and felt their gorge of nervous desire gust to her loins. She parted her legs some more, closing her eyes with a commariding smile, waiting for his mouth to give her succor. . . .

But nothing happened.

She looked down again and saw that he was gone without a trace.

Unless the gentle ripple in the water could be called a trace.

What crawled out next wasn't Ernie. It was something thin, gray, and very dead.

A woman. She couldn't have weighed ninety pounds. Gray skin seemed stretched over a struggling framework of bones, and Patricia could see those bones moving as the woman crawled hence. Hollow eyes looked up from the skull-like face showing through the open vee of straggly, waterlogged hair. Patricia wasn't sure-not that details mattered in a dream-but it seemed that the corpse woman possessed crude st.i.tches about her waist, as though she'd been cut in half and later reconnected by slipshod surgeons. A pendant with a stone of some kind swung about the starved neck as she continued to crawl.

"Flee this evil place, child," rumbled some semblance of a voice. Was that a Squatter accent leaking through the corrosion that death had brought to her larynx? "Run outta here now, and beg G.o.d's grace to go with ya. Run. Run."

"Run from what?" Patricia asked.

The cadaver collapsed as though all of her joints at once had lost their connective tissue.

Patricia's query wasn't answered, and when she heard stomping behind her-something coming out of the woods-she didn't need an answer to run just the same.

Her feet kicked up splotches of mud when she dashed along the edge of the pond. Before she could turn off in another direction . . . were there things in the pond, close to the surface, looking at her or addressing her in some way?

She didn't want to know. She plunged back into the woods and their moonlit darkness, the fire still blazing deeper within. Smoke stung her eyes, and when she felt small, fragile things crunching under her bare soles, she realized what they were: cicadas, having been cooked to crisps while trying to fly away The stomping still pounded behind her.

She thrashed farther into the woods, hoping she was heading away from the fires. Who's following me? But was it even a who? This was a dream, and that fact, now, she had to keep reminding herself of.

"It's something you're never meant to see." Dr. Sallee's voice somehow suffused her head. He was nowhere to be seen, of course. "Sometimes we chase ourselves. We're our own worst predators. Could it be that the person or thing that's chasing you is actually an aspect of yourself?"

I don't care! she thought at this point. Now she truly felt fear, and she expected more Freudian backlash when it became apparent that her previous s.e.xual arousal had increased tenfold. I don't believe that I subconsciously want to be raped again! She felt absolutely sure. Freud can kiss my a.s.s! Her dream-enhanced b.r.e.a.s.t.s - swayed vigorously beneath the tight fabric of the nightshirt. Her nipples buzzed. Then- s.h.i.t!

Patricia fell to the ground belly-first. She'd tripped over something. A vine? A branch?

No, because when she looked back, she saw in a network of moonlight what it had been: a severed head.

Dwayne's head, she knew.

And the wild footfalls of her pursuer drew closer. But . . .

What's . . . that?

Did she hear a pounding in the back of the dream? Like someone knocking on a door, she thought. But there were no doors here in the burning woods. The woods signified her desires, she knew, and the dangers that accompanied them, and her pursuer: the unknown.

But what of the pounding?

It scarcely mattered. She heaved herself up, was about to sprint off again, but then she saw another slant of moonlight painting the tree right before her.

There was a design carved in the tree's bark . . . but was the bark bleeding? No, of course not, it must be sap. And it was the design that riveted her: a crude yet elaborate cross framed by the intricate etchings and squiggles of the Stanherd clan's symbol for good luck.

She squirmed, flat on her back now. The dream was gone, and all she could feel were the throes of o.r.g.a.s.m, her nerves pulsing, her hand fervid between her legs, and then- "Patricia! Patricia!"

Her sister's voice.

Patricia snapped away. She was confused at first, for the moonlit darkness of the bedroom matched that of the woods in her dream. Of course, she'd wakened, and it was Judy who'd wakened her.

"Patricia, I'm so sorry ta wake ya at this hour, but-"

Oh, Jesus . . . The first thing she noticed was that her nightshirt-the same one from the dream-was pulled up over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Her nipples throbbed in delicious pain, and she knew how they'd gotten that way: from self-plucking. The sheet lay aside, her legs splayed. She knew she'd been masturbating in her sleep again, to the point of climax.

She second thing she noticed was the smell of smoke.

"Is the house on fire?" she blurted. Why else would Judy be waking her up so late and so abruptly?

"No, no, dear me, no. But-"

"And . . . I heard this loud pounding," she said, quickly dragging the nightshirt back down.

"That was Sergeant Trey, knocking on the front door."

The police? "What did he want?"

"To tell me what happened. There's been a burnin' on the Point, in Squatterville. Now hurry up 'n' put somethin' on so's we can go see."

A fire on the Point. Real smoke, evidently, had pursued her in the dream. "I'll be right there," she said.

Judy turned before she left, the slyest smile in the dark. "You were havin' yourself one racy dream, sister."

Thank G.o.d she couldn't see Patricia blushing.

"Ain't nothin' wrong with a gal takin' care a' herself," Judy added. "Now hurry! We'll meet'cha out front."

My G.o.d, Patricia thought when she left. My own sister just caught me masturbating. . . . She pulled on a blouse, shorts, and sneakers. Before she left she glanced out her open window and saw flames from afar.

It wasn't the kind of sight anyone would ever expect to see in a place like Agan's Point. Ever. Blossoms of flashing red, blue, and white lights throbbed out into the night. Several fire trucks parked askew, tentacle-like hoses reaching out. A half dozen police cars bracketed the end of the perimeter-several state cars, Patricia noted-with poker-faced officers prowling the scene. Patricia, Judy, and Ernie looked on in macabre awe.

"Oh, Lord, no." Judy gasped.

"It's David Eald's shack," Ernie said, "so I guess that's-"

Ernie didn't finish as the three of them watched firemen bring out a black body bag atop a stretcher.

A smell in the air nauseated Patricia; it wasn't a stench she might expect; it was an aroma-something akin to pork roast. Oh, Jesus, she thought, her stomach flipping.

"That ain't the worst of it, I'm afraid," Sergeant Trey. told them. His face shifted in various luminous shades from the flashing lights.

"David Eald has a daughter, doesn't he?" Judy choked out the question.

Both Trey and Ernie nodded at the same time, and a moment later a second stretcher was carried out.

Had a daughter, Patricia thought.

The trucks had put the fire out, a fire that had incinerated the dilapidated wooden shed that had comprised David Eald's home. Several trees had caught fire too, leaving blackened posts in their place, smoke still wafting.

"I know all the electrical connections 'n' junction boxes were good," Ernie said. Did he seem worried that someone might think he'd made a mistake? "They're all to spec. I installed 'em myself, every hookup in Squatterville."

"Just one a' those things," Trey offered. "Happens all the time, bad as it is. He 'n' his daughter probably went to bed and forgot to turn off the stove. The smoke conks 'em out in their sleep; then the place b.u.ms down."

A common tragedy. You read about accidents like this all the time in the paper, Patricia acknowledged, and you never really think much about it. . . . "There're an awful lot of police, though. And why all the state troopers?"

"That does seem strange," Judy added. "The nearest state police station is a half hour away."

"On account a' what happened earlier," Trey said. "With the Hilds. They're still investigating that . . . and now this happens."

"But the Hilds' murders and this fire can't possibly be related," Patricia supposed.

"I don't know about that, not now." Another voice sneaked up from behind. Chief Sutter's disheartened bulk stepped out of the darkness.

Judy looked puzzled. "Whatever do ya mean, Chief?"

"The Hilds were closet druggers-crystal meth." The chief's eyes roved the cinders that were once the Eald shack. "Ain't much left a' the place now, but the state cops found some charred chemical bottles inside, and a burned pot on the stove with somethin' at the bottom of it that they say ain't food."

Patricia immediately remembered what she'd read on the Internet earlier. "A methamphetamine lab," she said. "Is that what the police think?"

"They're sendin' the bottles and other stuff to their lab for tests, but it sure looks like it." Sutter shook his head. "Kinda makes sense when you think about it."

It was pretty sad sense.

Judy stood in something like a state of shock as she watched the police and firemen stalk about.

Patricia asked the grimmest question yet. "How old was this man's daughter?"

"Thirteen, fourteen, thereabouts," Ernie replied.

Judy stifled a sob.

"It's all the d.a.m.n drugs," Sutter regarded. "G.o.dd.a.m.n evil s.h.i.t . . ."

Patricia could feel streams of heat eddying off the cinders. The night felt more and more like something she was disconnected from-she was a watcher looking down. This quaint little town really is going to h.e.l.l fast. Four deaths just in the few days I've been here. Plus Dwayne . . .

The night swallowed the heavy thunks of the ambulance doors. Radio squawk etched the air. Patricia put her arm around her sister, who was already blinking tears out of her eyes. Judy's lower lip quivered when she finally said, "I might have to sell this land after all."

No one said anything after that.

And no one noticed the split second in which Sergeant Trey smiled.

Eight.

(I).

Ricky felt high on drugs when he got back home, the tantalizing garbage thoughts filling his brain as effectively as any opiate. The girl had really gotten him tuned up. I love it when the b.i.t.c.hes twitch like that, he thought, replaying the atrocity in his mind. And right there on the floor next to her dead daddy! Yeah, it was a great night, all right. He'd torched the place perfectly, too, afterward, and was all the way back in the woods before the fire started to really catch.

Ricky was a consummate sociopath.

Can't wait to tell Junior, he thought. He was cutting through the woods all the way back home, so as not to be seen. This was something they needed to have a few beers over. And he couldn't wait to tell him about the girl. . . .

Yeah, my little brother'll be a mite jealous 'bout that!

He could hear the sirens in the distance, which simply brought more satisfaction to his heart. It filled him up very happily, like a big, rich meal.

Night sounds pulsed around him. Eventually, the trees broke and he was suddenly standing in his backyard. He didn't see any lights on in the house, though. Guess Junior went beddy-bye, he thought. Usually they both stayed up late, drinking and watching p.o.r.n. It seemed a brotherly thing to do.

But Ricky was too keyed-up to go to bed himself. Couple beers and another chew, first, and maybe he'd also pop in his favorite p.o.r.no, Natal Attraction. He crossed the backyard, stepping over moonlit junk, and went in through the back screen door.

At once, the inside of the house felt . . .

Weird, he thought.

Darkness hemmed him in, and when he closed the door behind him the silence felt cloying, like the faintest unpleasant smell in the air. He snapped on the kitchen light, yet felt no better. He couldn't shake the feeling, and he didn't even know what the feeling was. When he opened the refrigerator for a beer, he stalled, hand poised.

Ain't that the f.u.c.kin' s.h.i.ts.

The full case of brew he'd put in there this afternoon was untouched. Junior must be sick as a dog to not've knocked out ten or twelve bottles by now.

He grabbed one and closed the door, then walked slowly, brow furrowed, into the front room, switched on the light- The bottle of beer shattered on the floor.

Ricky stared, gut churning.

Junior Caudill lay in the middle of the floor, eyes and mouth wide open, not breathing. His face could've been a pallid mask, gravity pushing the blood to the lowest surfaces of the body, leaving the flesh white as a turnip.

Ricky's mourning escaped in a shrill gasp from his throat. He couldn't say or even think anything about what he was looking at. Junior had obviously been dead for several hours, but that wasn't why Ricky stared.

Junior's pants looked several sizes too large; in fact, they hung so loosely they surely would've fallen down were he standing up.

When the shock snapped, Ricky yelled, "Junior!" and rushed to him, dropping to his knees. His hands floated in the air; he didn't know what to do.

"Junior! What happened?"